


Not what he expected

by MelMey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03 AU, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock Whump, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 46
Words: 67,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelMey/pseuds/MelMey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post His Last Vow, but an alternative universe.<br/>Moriarty does not save Sherlock from his suicide mission. He flew to Eastern Europe, but everything turns out to be different than expected as he meets someone he had hoped he would never see again. It is a start into a hell Sherlock never thought to be possible. It is a start into a hell Sherlock never thought to be possible. And the way back is harder than imagined.</p><p>I changed the summary a bit as the story progresses. I hope it doesn’t reveal too much. As mentioned before the story will be a long one and will have some twist and turns. Further Tags and characters will be added along. I added a pairing tag as some readers feeled betrayed by the development of the story. Sorry, that was not my intention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So different

**Author's Note:**

> So, this will be longer story as mentioned in the summary. I have so far written a draft for the whole story that will probably be a bit about 40 chapters. As I will never leave a story unfinished I promise you will get them all and I will post regularly.
> 
> Some warnings. The story will have some descriptions of violence. I am not a good judge whether people consider them graphic or not. But please look at the tags that might be added.
> 
> The usual: I don't own Sherlock, I just like it and borrowed those characters and twisted the original stories.

He knew the pain was there. It must be there. He was hit on his head quite hard. He felt blood streaming down from his temple. He was lying on the cold floor of some kind of cell, his hands tied behind his back. But somehow he didn’t feel anything, no pain, nothing. Shock – his brain provided as an answer. Yes, shock. This could not be real. The last two hours were just surreal. Yes, he expected to die on this mission. Mycroft made that very clear and once he himself had seen the task and recognized the obstacles he had to agree. Infiltrating the network of Anton Baracnik was a suicide mission. Back then he thought that he would be able to beat Mycroft in his estimation of the six months, maybe only for a couple of week, but he had sworn to try everything to prove him wrong. One last battle between him and his brother even though he would not be able to see his brothers face even if he made it.

But now everything was different. This mission turned out to be so different. He had made it beyond the six months prediction, but he now believed that was a trick. He didn’t expect to meet him here. In all the files and all the information he got there was no hint that he would be behind all this. And Mycroft didn’t give him a hint either. Had he really not known who Anton Baracnik was? Or was Mycroft so cruel to just let him run into this fate without a single warning? His brain couldn’t provide him with an answer to that question, but it really didn’t matter anymore either. He was here and so was Sherrinford aka Anton Baracnik, no doubt about that. And everything that was to happen in the future would not be pleasant. The things his twin did to him were never pleasant, not in the past, not when they were small kids, not when they were teenagers, not the last time they had seen each other back in Cambridge. While Sherrinford as unpredictable most of the time there was one thing Sherlock could always count on. Ford was always cruel, either in a twisted, psychological way and if that didn’t lead to defeating his twin brother than Ford had to qualms about using physical means to get what he wanted.

The more Sherlock thought about the past, about his childhood and youth, the more he felt the fear creeping into his thoughts. He hasn’t seen Sherrinford since he had left England back when they were both students. It was at the end of their first year at university. They were both bored, but his brother adventured into the criminal world to cure his boredom and wanted Sherlock to join him. It was the only time he didn’t get what he wanted, even though he had tried with all means. In the end Sherlock asked Mycroft for help. It was his last resort, to save himself and more importantly to save Victor. Mycroft had never helped him when it came to deal with his psychopathic twin brother. Like their parents Mycroft always saw Sherlock as the problem. Sherrinford was much too good at playing the good boy when Mycroft or their parents were around. And he always had a good explanation for the bruises and cuts on Sherlock’s body and so it was always Sherlock who ended up being viewed as the strange one, the one who was not normal. Sherrinford even managed to get him sectioned once. A deep shudder travelled through Sherlock’s body when he thought about his time in the mental institution. So back at university asking his older brother for help was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was the only way that was left. In the end Sherrinford fled the country, cursed his brothers and threatened them with revenge. But until now Sherlock had never ever heard something from him and he had never bothered to ask Mycroft about him. It was an undisputed in the Holmes family to never even say his name. Even when Sherlock was traveling all over the world dismantling Moriarty’s network he had never heard anything of a criminal that bear any resemblance to Sherrinford. But now here he was, leading a growing criminal network that had filled the void left when Sherlock destroyed Moriarty’s network. Wasn’t that ironic, that he had paved the way for his crazy brother?

Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted when the door of his cell was opened and one of his brother’s minions came in.  
“Time to have some fun, the boss said.” That was all he said and it was enough to make Sherlock quiver in fear.


	2. Six months

 

Six months, those were the two words that crossed John’s mind nearly every day for the past weeks. Six months, so long was the mission supposed to last. And then? Sherlock didn’t give him an answer to that question at that time and Mycroft just said nothing, but now that the six months were over he was determined to ask it again and to get an answer. He sent a couple of messages to Mycroft every day and finally he agreed to meet. So now, here he was, sitting in Mycroft’s office in the Diogenes Club.

“How is Sherlock? Will he be back soon?” John asked impatiently.

Mycroft didn’t say a word; just bit his lower lip, obviously nervous about the question. Mycroft nervous, John thought. That is something new and something frightening.

“Just tell me.” John asked again.

Mycroft nodded, opened his mouth a couple of time to start explaining but then he stopped himself just before any words appeared. The silenced stretched for what seems to be a long time.

“I guess he hasn’t told you. I was never quite sure if he had or not, even though from the way you two said goodbye on the tarmac I already guessed that he hasn’t told you.” Mycroft started.

“Never told me what?” John asked confused.

“After shooting Magnussen he was given two options – go to prison for the rest of his life – something that would surely be his death in a lot of different ways. Or go on a special mission for the MI6 to Eastern Europe, infiltrating and sabotaging a criminal network. He chose the second option although it was clear that the mission would be his death as well.”

“What?” John yelled, jumping up.

“His role in this mission was dangerous, very dangerous. It was always clear that he might die in the end. The six months were my estimation.” Mycroft stated calmly, but there was a small hint of a tremor in his voice, so small John didn’t notice.

“You send your brother on a suicide mission? You knew he would die?” John yelled, slamming his fist on the desk.

Mycroft flinched and looked down on the papers on his desk.

“If I would have been able to come up with another option I would have done it. But even though my brother believed me to be the British government, even my power is limited. I couldn’t prevent it.” Mycroft sensed that John wanted to interrupt him. “And believe me, there isn’t one day when I am not feeling guilty of not being able to keep him here.”

By now both men looked at each other.

“So, he is dead?” John asked resigned.

“I don’t know.” Mycroft answered. “We lost contact with him a few days ago. I have another agent in the organization. He was supposed to protect him, but they have lost contact and so far he hasn’t found Sherlock.”

“Is there any hope?” John asked with a quivering voice. This couldn’t be, this could not happen, not again.

“Hope.” Mycroft smiled. “I know my brothers abilities and I have witnessed him doing incredible things, so yes, I have hope, and if only for the purpose of not feeling so guilty anymore. But there is a reasonable part in me and that one is sure that if he is not dead by now he will be very soon. But we may never have proof of that. We may never be able to recover his body.”

For the next couple of minutes both men said nothing. John stared at the dark floor, trying to think what to do with all this information. He felt lost and something else. Guilt. Mycroft may feel guilty about not being able to prevent his brother from being forced to join this mission. But John felt a different kind of guilt. Sherlock died because he wanted to protected John and his family. John was the cause of death. If Sherlock would have never met him, if they had never lived together and never became friends than none of this would have ever happened. With those thoughts in mind John slowly got up. At the door he hesitated for a moment and turned around.

“If you hear anything from him, whether it is good or bad, please tell me.” John asked with a quiet voice.

“I will.” Came the answer from Mycroft.

 


	3. An unwanted reunion

Sherlock had expected a lot from his brother, but not this. His wrists were no longer bound and they had given him time in the bath to clean his head wound. He was brought into a large room. It was furnished with a nice modern oak table and two chairs. He was seated at a table, a meal in front of them that looked truly delicious. The table was just set for one person, but Sherlock had no intention at eating any of the food. When Sherrinford entered the room Sherlock took a moment to take him in. They were not identical twins but there still was some kind of resemblance, mostly the eyes and a little bit of the bone structure. It would be more obvious if Sherrinford had not decided to wear his hairs only at length of a few millimeters. He looked older that way. And there was a clearly visible scar on his jaw that stretched when he smiled. And with a smug smile his brother took the seat opposite of Sherlock. It looked like a meal with two civilized person, but Sherlock knew that that couldn’t be true.

 

“What is it Sherlock? Don’t you like the food I serve?” Sherrinford asked a smile on his lips.

 

“I don’t trust you.” Sherlock answered, glaring at his brother.

 

Sherrinford just smiled. “So no small talk then. Right to the point. Well, very well. Just one advice, enjoy this meal. It will be the last meal of this kind for you.”

 

“So you are going to kill me. That comes unexpected.” Sherlock said mockingly, trying to conceal his fear.

 

“Kill you now. Yeah, I could do that.” Sherrinford pretended to think for a moment. “But that would be too simple. Not enough fun. And I think our dear brother already has his bloodhounds trailing your tracks and so I have to cover up my tracks. To answer a question that is surley on your mind. He had no idea that he sent you in my arms. So, no, I will not kill you – not now and maybe not even myself. But don’t worry I found the perfect solution.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t suppress the shiver that travelled through his body while listening to his brother’s cold voice.

 

“I will sell you, for a good price that is.” Sherrinford explained, still smiling.

 

“Sell me. Who would buy me?” Sherlock asked, trying his best to sound confident but he knew his brother would see right through him.

 

“Oh, you know there are certain establishments that are always in need of new material.”

 

“You want to sell me to a brothel?” Sherlock asked, surprised by his brother’s plan.

 

“Oh no, Sherlock, although some of your future clients there might also be interested in some rough sex. No. You know some people like to hurt other people, really hurt other people. They enjoy seeing someone in pain that they inflicted. And if someone has such urges it is not always easy to find a safe way to indulge in such activities, especially if you cannot do it as part of your job. So among my many businesses I run an establishment for such people. I found out that it kills two birds with just one stone. Those people are willing to pay a lot of money to play out their fantasies without the fear of being prosecuted. And I can use it to disperse my enemies or other people I want to get rid of, plus being able to enjoy their suffering.” Sherrinford smiled, obviously very happy with his explanation.

 

Sherlock tried to remain calm, but he felt the fear creeping through his body and his mind, his breathing accelerated. He always knew that his brother was crazy, but he wouldn’t have thought about something like that.

 

“You see, all sessions are recorded. It is always interesting to see how long the material lasts. Oh, you don’t need to worry, you will last long.” Sherrinford’s voice dropped and he sounded vicious and cold. “I will instruct my people to make sure you will last as long as possible.”

 

“Mycroft will find me. And he will find you.” Sherlock said, deliberately putting anger in his voice, but he himself heard the panic seeping through.

 

“You think so? I don’t. I have the perfect plan. Our dear brother, or one of his minions that works for me by the way, will find an unidentifiable corpse, just with tiny pieces left for DNA identification. He will think that he has found you. And he will bury you. This time for real. Nobody will look for you. Nobody.” Sherrinford emphasized the last word with a smile filled with pure hatred.

 

Sherlock felt the panic creeping all through his body and forced himself to remain calm on the outside. He needed a plan to escape, now.

 

“And now you should eat. As I said, this will be your last meal of this kind.” With that Sherrinford stood up. He walked around the table, leaned down to kiss his brother’s cheek. Sherlock wanted to duck away but his brother grabbed his head.

 

“No, no, brother. You can’t deny me one last kiss as a goodbye.” Sherrinford said and kissed Sherlock. “And by the way, thank you for destroying Moriarty’s network. That helped a lot.” With those words he left the room.

 

Sherlock was alone. He didn’t touch the food in front of him. Maybe there was some kind of sedative mixed into it. He couldn’t risk that. He needed to find a way to escape. The room had windows with bars in front of them, so that wasn’t an option. There were armed guards in front of the only door; he had seen them, so that wouldn’t be an option either.  He would have to wait until they would transport him to wherever this establishment of Sherrinford was and then he would try to escape while in transit.


	4. Welcome in hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at the added tags for trigger warnings.

Sherlock woke up in a windowless cell. His head was pounding. Only a faint light shone through the small window of the door and illuminated parts of the room. He found himself on an old mattress on the floor, covered with a sheet and a wool blanket but otherwise naked. He tried to remember what had happened and slowly he did. The needle plunged into his neck shortly after his brother had left the room. So much for trying to escape on the way to wherever this was, Sherlock thought bitterly. He still felt the drug in his system and didn’t dare to get up. He looked around and saw nothing but a small sink and a toilet in the corner of the room. It looked pretty much like an old prison cell and he realized that it was his prison now. The words of his brother came back to him and a wave of fear overcame him. He tried to calm himself down but everything around him only enforced the fear. It was a cell, stripped of anything that could be used to make an escape. While his fear made his heart race he heard noise in the hallway. He didn’t have to wait long for the door to his cell to be opened and two men wearing a kind of black uniform coming in.

 

“You are awake. Very good.” The older of the two guards started. Sherlock just needed one glace to realize that the man enjoyed his position. His voice was gloating as he started to speak. “Let me explain the rules that you will follow from this day on. You are nothing. You are our material, to be sold to our clients. When the door to your cell is opened you will move to the middle of the room, on your knees, head down, hands stretched out in front of you.” The man waited. “Didn’t I speak clearly enough?”

 

There was a vicious tone in his voice and Sherlock knew what the guard expected but he was not willing to play along, not yet anyway. And as expected the guard came closer.

 

“I said, didn’t you hear what is expected of you?”

 

Sherlock didn’t move, just watching the guard coming even closer. Now Sherlock saw the electric cattle prod that the guard had hidden behind his back. But before Sherlock could react the guard had turned it on and in the next moment Sherlock felt the electric current traveling through his body, pain ripping through him, the current forcing his muscles to spasm. He needed all his willpower not to scream.

 

“So, do I need to repeat myself?” The guard asked.

 

Sherlock decided it would be better to obey at this point and so he shuffled to the middle of the room on his knees, stretching out his arms, looking down on the floor in front of him. He felt his muscles still trembling from the electric shock.

 

“I thought so.” The guard said and Sherlock could literally hear the smug smile. “So, the rules: You will not move unless you are told so, you will not speak unless we ask you to do so, you will follow every order. If you don’t obey you will be punished. The boss wants to keep you alive as long as possible but that doesn’t mean we are not able to hurt you. There are lots of ways to make you submissive and we will use them.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He needed to find a way out of this hell, but in order to do so he needed more data. He decided that he would obey so that they would not see him as a risk and so that he could find a way out.

 

“You first client is already here. Your first session will be in an hour. The rules for the sessions are quite simple. You will only speak when the client asks you to do so. Again if you fail to stick to the rules we will punish you after the session in addition to whatever punishment the client deems to inflict on you.” The guard explained and turned around to the second younger guard. “Get him ready.”

 

The second guard snapped two metal handcuffs around Sherlock’s wrists. They were connected to a long chain. “Get up and follow me. And don’t do something stupid.” And as if he needed to underscore that Sherlock was tasered again. He needed a moment before he had regained the control over his body. “Don’t let me wait.” The guard said and dragged on the chain so Sherlock hurried to get up, wobbly and unsteady he followed the guard.

 

They led him upstairs, the second guard always a few steps behind him, the cattle prod turned off but poking in his back. He was only able to catch he few glances at his surroundings. His cell was not the only one in the cellar. There were five more and Sherlock wondered whether they were inhabited or not. The house was obviously an old manor adapted to the new function. As it was already dark outside so he couldn’t make out much of the surrounding area. He was led to a rather large room on the ground floor where another guard was waiting. What he saw in the room made him shiver. On a table on the side lay all kinds of whips, canes, cuffs and cables and another cattle prod. In the middle of the room was another table or something like an examination table but he hadn’t much time to take a close look as he was dragged over it, down on his stomach, his wrist secured to the legs of the table by broad metal cuffs that cut into his skin when he tried to move. His ankles were also restrained. He had to force himself not to panic as he saw that the guards attached electric cables to those cuffs. Sherlock tried to calm himself retreating into his mind palace. He needed to find a way to deal with the pain that was sure to come. He knew he could do it.

 

But the pain didn’t come. Instead he was left alone. He couldn’t quite say how long he had to wait in that position, but it felt rather long and he started to doze off a bit. He didn’t notice when the door to the room opened but then he felt fingertips stroking over his back.

 

“Oh, you are nice material.” He heard a man say. “How I love to be the first to play with you. Baracnik has given me this special privilege, said you were something special, that you earned a special treatment.”

 

The next moment the man stopped touching him and Sherlock heard a click and the first of many electroshocks travelled through his body, stronger than the ones from the cattle prod of the guards. It was a never ending white hot pain. His muscles spasmed, his wrists and ankles tore at the restraints which cut into his skin. Sherlock’s body wanted to scream the pain away, but he forced himself not to scream, especially since the man taunted him. He went to his mind palace, into the wild back garden that was the most peaceful place in there. It resembled the wild garden of an abandoned house close to his parent’s home. He used to come there when he was a child, watching a nest of wild bees, did experiments, hid away from his brother. It was a place where he always felt safe. He tried to concentrate on that and it worked for while, even when he couldn’t drown out the pain and the voice of his tormentor completely. While he sat in garden in his mind palace he tried to think about the pain as an experiment. How much electroshocks can you give to a person without killing him, without making him scream? He had read about that in the past. He was sure that the shocks were not killing him and he knew that the pain would end eventually. But that didn’t change his perception of the pain right now and at a certain point he lost the control of his mind palace, the garden vanished and he was completely back in the reality of the torture chamber. He had to scream, the pain was just too much. His screams satisfied the other man and he stopped for a moment.

 

“I knew I would get you to scream.” He said, his hands travelling over Sherlock’s trembling body before he walked out of the room.

 

Sherlock led out a deep breath. It was over, for now at least, he thought. He felt his muscles trembling, sore from the spasms. He watched small rivulets of blood making their way from his abused throbbing wrists to the floor and he could feel that blood was also flowing down his ankles.

A moment later the man and two guards came in. The cables were discarded, the cuffs opened and he was dragged of the table. Sherlock was not able to move by himself, his muscles were shaking too much; he was not able to control his body, let alone fight against the two guards. So he helplessly had to observe how he was placed on a kind saw horse, his legs and arms restraint with cuffs again, his legs spread in a way that led only to one conclusion to what would come next.

 

“Shall we prepare him?” Sherlock heard a guard ask and he knew he was right about his deduction. He needed to retreat to his mind palace again, but the voices of the guards and the clients lingered in his mind.

 

“No, I do that myself.” The client answered while his fingers were caressing Sherlock’s back.

 

“As you like. Just as a reminder. The boss doesn’t want the material to be damaged in that way.” The guard said.

 

“Yes, I know. I have talked to Baracnik. And of course I do as he asked, especially since he honored me to be the first who takes his newest material.”

 

Sherlock tried to suppress the shiver that was running through his body. He went to his mind palace again and hoped that he would be able to stay there for as long as it was needed. The following minutes or were it hours past in a strange kind of blur. Sherlock was able to stay in the back garden of his mind palace, but he was also acutely aware of what happened to him, how the client prepared him and how he was actually raped. The man was grunting and when he was finished he let his fingers travel over Sherlock’s body.

 

“That was nice. I wished I had more time. I can think of so many things that I could do with you. And I definitely want to hear you scream more. I will surely be coming back for more.” The man chuckled and left.

 

Sherlock was alone for a short time. When the guards came into the room he expected to be untied, but instead the older guard laughed. “Well, would be a pity not to use you now that you are so well prepared.” Sherlock heard the noise of a zip that was opened and as much as he tried to escape to his mind palace it didn’t worked this time and so he was just too aware how he was raped again by all three guards. When it was the turn of the older guard, who seemed to be in charge, he whispered in his ear. “With lots of love from the boss.” At a certain point Sherlock’s body saved him this horror by losing consciousness.

 

When he woke up again he found himself back in his cell, naked and sore on the mattress in the corner. He was freezing as they didn’t cover him with the blanket. He was thirsty as well but as soon as he tried to get up he recognized that he was far too weak as a wave of nausea hit him, his muscles trembling with the effort. So he just grabbed the blanket and curled himself up. He then noticed that his wrists were covered with an adhesive dressing.  His brother really wanted to make sure that he didn’t die premature, not even of such a simple thing as a skin infection. Sherlock sighed. He needed to come up with an escape plan but he was much too exhausted to think about anything.

 


	5. Break my heart

Mycroft looked at the pictures, try to make out his brother’s features in the charred body, but the corpse was burnt beyond recognition. His agent had found him, finally. Mycroft shuddered. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to Sherlock in his last hours, or were it days? It took the agent eight days to find a lead about Sherlock’s whereabouts, but then he only found the burnt body and even though he was not able to confirm when it had happened and who had killed Sherlock, the body had shown clear evidence for some blunt traumas as well as a bullet wound in the forehead. And as the agent had to flee himself he couldn’t bring the body back then, only samples for the DNA testing.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath and opened the folder Anthea had handed him a few minutes ago. The results of the DNA testing. He had looked at the pictures over and over again. As he couldn’t make out if it was his brother or not he still had hope. He had avoided looking at the test results as long as possible, but he knew that he had to look at it eventually. He began to read and the second sentence confirmed his greatest fear. The burnt body was the one of Sherlock Holmes, no doubt about that. Mycroft felt tears streaming down his cheeks. He had lost his brother. And it was his fault. He hadn’t been able to protect him. Mycroft tried with all his willpower to get a grip of his emotions. There were things to do. He had to tell his parents. Oh god, what will they say. And then there were Sherlock’s friends. He dreaded this task but he knew he had to do it himself. There was no way to delegate that. The only thing he could delegate was to bring back the body. Mycroft would send a team to recover the body. Surely it was already gone, but they would find it. It would be no easy task but Mycroft was determined to use his power to at least bring back his brother’s body to be buried in English soil.

 

 

* * *

 

Mycroft decided to tell it to John first. That would surely not be easy but probably still much easier than telling his parents. When the black car parked in front of the house in the suburbs Mycroft hesitated a moment before he got out. He took the box from the seat beside him. It contained the skull and some notebooks with case notes. Sherlock had stated in his will that he wanted John to get them, so Mycroft had been to Baker Street to fetch them. It took a lot of strength just to walk into his brother’s flat. He had left everything the way it was when Sherlock left, because he had always hoped for his brother to return. But standing there he realized that those belongings were everything that was left of him. As he stood there in the middle of the living room he felt the walls closing in, heard Sherlock’s voice whispering in his head. “You have failed me, sent me to death”. In a hurry Mycroft had grabbed the skull and the notebooks and fled the flat. He knew he would have to come back but he felt unable to deal with Sherlock’s inheritance and his ghost at this moment.

 

  

Mary had noticed the black car first and her gut feeling told her that Mycroft came with bad news.

“John? Open the door.” Mary said.

 

“Why should I.” But John’s reply was interrupted by the door bell. So he walked to the door and opened it. One look at Mycroft and the box he carried was all John needed to realize what this visit was about.

 

“No. No. No.” John shook his head.

 

“Can I come in?” Mycroft asked softly.

 

John walked back to the living room where Mary and his daughter were waiting. He sat beside them and waited for Mycroft to sit down. Mycroft waited a moment and he wanted to say something, but he just didn’t know how to say it.

 

“He is dead, isn’t he?” Mary asked.

 

Mycroft just nodded and took a deep breath. “We don’t know exactly what happened, but we are sure that it is him.”

 

“What does that mean?” John asked.

 

“The second agent lost his trail and then he heard rumors. What he found was a burnt body, killed by a head shot. The agent was able to gather some material before he had to flee, so we could do a DNA test. There is no doubt. It was Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice broke with those last words.

 

John just stared ahead. That couldn’t be. It had to be another magic trick. But then he saw Mycroft’s face – guilt and sadness written all over it, eyes wet with tears about to spill. So it was true. It must be true when it made the iceman break. This realization hit John like a hammer. He had lost Sherlock. He was dead, this time for real. Those last words on the tarmac were truly the last words they ever exchanged. A joke, because they weren’t able to find the words they really wanted to say. John didn’t realize that Mary had started talking until he heard her question.

 

“Did you recover the body?” Mary asked.

 

John looked at Mycroft who barely shook his head.

 

“Not yet. The agent had to flee. We are trying to find out what has happened, but it isn’t easy. There are indicators that the body was buried in a local cemetery in an anonymous grave, but we aren’t sure yet. The people there are so afraid of Baracnik that it will take some time to recover the body and bring it back, but I will make sure it happens.” Mycroft stared at the wooden floor.

 

John didn’t know what to say. He felt like he was trapped in a déjà vu, yet it felt so different but not less painful. He felt Mary’s hand on his knee and grabbed it. He took one look at her and realized she was as shocked and sad as he was.

 

“I will leave you now.” Mycroft said and got up. “I will have to tell our parents and Sherlock’s other friends.” His voice broke again.

 

 John saw that the weight of this responsibility dragged Mycroft down. Without thinking about it he said. “We can tell his friends – Molly, Greg and Mrs. Hudson.”

Mary nodded. “Yes, let us tell them.”

 

Mycroft just stared at John and Mary. “You would do that?” He asked doubtfully.

 

“Yes, of course.” John and Mary answered unison.

 

“Thank you.” Mycroft said his voice soft and vulnerable. “I will contact you for the funeral.” With that Mycroft left.

 

 

* * *

 

When Mycroft left John and Mary he felt numb. Speaking about Sherlock’s death to people who actually cared made everything so much more real. He had planned to drive to his parents the next day but right now he just wanted to get over with it. He was glad that John had offered to tell Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Lestrade. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he would have managed to face them.

 

It took two hours to drive to the cottage of their parents outside of London. When he walked up to the door he remembered the conversation he had with his brother here in front of the cottage last Christmas. ”Your loss would break my heart.” He had voiced a feeling he felt his whole life, from the very moment he had held his baby brother for the first time. And even though they were only separated by a few minutes for Mycroft Sherlock was always the baby of the family, his baby brother. He was the smaller one of the twins when they were born and he was always the one he was worried about, even more so after Sherrinford had fled the country. And now this loss had truly broken his heart. The door of the cottage opened.

 

“Mycie? What are you doing here?” His mother asked.

 

“Hi Mummy.” Mycroft said and walked in. “Is dad here? I need to talk to you both.”

 

“Sure. We are in the kitchen. Would you like a tea?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

 

“Yes, please.”

 

They walked into the kitchen. “Mycroft. A spontaneous visit?” His father asked.

 

Mycroft said down and waited until his mother has given him his tea and had sat down as well.

“I am the bearer of bad news.” Mycroft started and he felt the tears welling up his eyes.

 

“Mycroft, what has happened?” His mother asked sternly.

 

The tears were falling now. “Sherlock is dead.” He whispered not daring to look at his parents.

 

“What?” His mother asked. “That cannot be. You said he would be protected by your agents.”

 

“We are not quite sure what has happened, but the other agent found him. We did a DNA test, there is no doubt that it was Sherlock.” Mycroft started to explain but he was interrupted by his mother yelling.

 

“You said he would be protected. You promised to take care of him.”

 

“I tried everything I could, but it was a dangerous mission.” Mycroft said looking his mother in the eyes and all he could see was her anger.

 

“Everything you could?  Than this would not have happened?” Mrs. Holmes cried out.

 

“Violet, please, let him explain.” Her husband tried to calm her down.

 

“And why did you send him on such a dangerous mission anyway?” Mrs. Holmes ranted on.

 

“I had no choice. You know what he had done. I couldn’t prevent it.” Mycroft tried to explain.

 

“Yes, you couldn’t prevent it, like you couldn’t prevent Ford to disappear.” Mrs. Holmes yelled and got up. “I lost both my babies because you couldn’t protect them.”She walked out of the kitchen. “I don’t want to see you here again.”

 

Mycroft nodded and looked down on the table. She was right he had not been able to prevent what happened to his two younger brothers. He had lost both; he had not been able to protect them. He slowly got up when he felt his father’s hand on his arm.

 

“She will calm down. She hadn’t meant that.” His father said.

 

But Mycroft knew that she meant it. He had seen it in her eyes, but he didn’t want to argue with his father. “I will call you about the funeral.” Mycroft said. “We haven’t recovered the body yet. It might take a while to do that, but I promise I will bring him back.”

 

“I know you will.” Mr. Holmes said softly.

 

Mycroft left without another word. When he sat down in the car he felt completely exhausted. He knew it would be bad, but he hadn’t thought that it would be that bad.

 

* * *

 

John woke up early. It was another nightmare in which he saw Sherlock in a dark and molded cellar, on his knees while a man behind him aimed a gun at his head. In those dreams John was standing there watching his friends, listening how Sherlock would plead John to help him, seconds before the gunshot killed him. John had those dreams every night since Mycroft’s visit and he knew that Mary had nightmares as well. They have talked about it one night, well, not really talk about it, but they had admitted that Sherlock’s death caused those nightmares and that they both felt responsible for his death. John had thought that Sherlock’s death would tear them apart, but so far they both have felt too numb, too guilty to act in any way.

 

John got up after watching Mary for a while. Today was the funeral. Mycroft had finally managed to transfer what was left of Sherlock’s body back to England. A funeral should bring closure, but John shuddered at the prospect to relive it again. Slowly he made his way to his daughter’s crib. She was awake but silent. He lifted her up and held her close and slowly made his way out of the bedroom down to the living room.

 

“You are named after him, you know that.” He said softly to his daughter. “It was one of the last things he told me, his full name. He asked that we name you after him.” It seemed like a joke back then, John thought. By now he had realized that Sherlock was well aware how dangerous the mission was that he was sent on. It broke John’s heart to know that in those last moments they had he hadn’t been able to tell Sherlock how much he meant to him. And now he was gone. Tears started to stream down his cheeks and John felt how his daughter stirred in his arms as he held her probably a bit too tight. He released his grip and looked at her.

 

“I am sorry.” He said. “And I am sorry that you will never have the chance to meet him. He was supposed to be your godfather.” John gulped. He had imagined how Sherlock would babysit his godchild, how he would teach her science once she was old enough for that. John knew that Sherlock liked children. He had seen how Sherlock had interacted with Archie, their pageboy at the wedding. It was cute and maybe also a little bit scary, but John had wished Sherlock to be part of his daughter’s life anyway.

 

He sat on the sofa with his daughter in his arms until the sunrays streamed through the window. Memories of Sherlock had flooded his thoughts, the many laughs they had, the wild chases, the amazing deductions, the quite evenings with take-away, the experiments in the kitchen.

 

“We should get ready.” Mary’s soft voice penetrated his thoughts.

 

He nodded. Yes, they should get ready, for a final goodbye.


	6. Trying to find a way out

Pain. The only thing left. Pain and humiliation. Not that he had expected anything else after his brother’s explanation, but the amount, the dimensions of his revenge were far more than Sherlock had expected. The clients of this establishment were perverts, unimaginative, but still perverts, torturing people for fun. And as his brother has promised the staff made sure he was not killed. He was tortured in ways that delivered the maximum amount of pain and humiliation possible without killing him. Electroshocks were the favorite of many clients, but it wasn’t the only ordeal he was put through. There was waterboarding that left him wrecked and shivering in his cell for hours afterwards, unable to move and with the feeling of being suffocated creeping into his dreams. He was raped so many times he stopped counting. At the beginning he always tried to force himself not to scream, not giving those perverts the satisfaction. But at some point he had lost the strength and by now his voice was hoarse from screaming.

 

Even when there were no clients, he was not left alone as the guards came up with something. There were hours and hours forced into stress position, chained up without a possibility to find a position to rest his sore muscles. In-between he was not allowed to sleep, which left him worn and aching for days afterwards. When he wasn’t able to move anymore, too weak, too damaged to do anything the guards subjected him to sensory deprivation, bound in his cell, in the dark, unable to move, to see and to hear anything. Or forced to listen to white noise for an amount of time that Sherlock couldn’t even estimate but that surely felt like an eternity. Every time the guards tortured him one of them whispered in his ear that it was a gift from the boss, that the boss was very satisfied with what he saw on the videos, a reminder that he was watched all of the time and that his brother wanted him to suffer as much and as long as possible.

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he guessed that he was tortured nearly every day, only with a few longer pauses in-between. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been in this hell so far. Nevertheless, he estimated that he has been here for several weeks by now, but the concept of time was somehow elusive to Sherlock by now, being kept in a windowless cell most of the time and only seeing the light of day or the stars when he was brought upstairs to the chambers where he would meet the clients. Even then he only got glimpses of the outside world. As far as he could tell the mansion was in the countryside, surrounded by open land and some woods. Right at the beginning he had tried to find a way to escape, but his only attempt ended at the front door with a glimpse of a high fence that surrounded the estate. After that the guards had him fitted with a shock collar of which they made use whenever they liked it.

 

Sherlock felt himself drifting away. There was no way to escape. His mind palace was a refuge, but it crumpled bit by bit every day. Every day he lost more and more control, he helplessly had to watch how the paint chipped off from the walls, how his well sorted books were thrown to the floor. The worst damage was done to the back garden, his safe place. Most flowers and trees were dead by now. Every time he was left alone he tried to repair the damage, but it was a wild-goose chase. One day while in his cell he wandered through the nearly dead garden of his mind palace. His fingertips touched the dead flowers and the dying trees. Everything here was dying and then Sherlock realized that death would be the only solution. Instantly he left his mind palace and looked around in his cell, but there was nothing he could use to kill himself. The mug for drinking was made of a kind of rubber, food was served with a similar kind of useless cutlery. And once he was in one of the torture chambers the guards made sure he was bound tight.

 

The only solution seemed to stop drinking. Dehydration leads to death in about three to five days. So Sherlock decided to stop drinking. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had to try. Later he thought it was a stupid idea and that he should have known better. Of course, he was monitored all the time, so they forced him to drink and even force-fed him with a feeding tube for several days, bound tight, just to humiliate him, just to show him that he had absolutely no control over his life. The guards made quite clear that their boss instructed them to do everything to keep him alive.

 

His second idea was to get one of the clients to kill him accidentally. Sherlock thought about provoking the next client with deductions in order to make him loose control. Once he had formed this plan in his head he eagerly waited for the next client to arrive, which in itself was strange, he thought. If his plan would work he would die. If he was lucky he would die fast. He embraced that prospect. When finally the door of the cell opened he got on his knees and moved to the middle of the room. The fact that by now he had not once tried to disobey the rules made the older guard chuckle.

 

“Such well trained material.” The guard said striking him over his head.

 

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t reply he just waited for the handcuffs to be placed around his wrists after a younger guard removed the bandages. His wrists were in a permanent state of abrasions and cuts. They healed a bit in the breaks, but there was never enough time to really heal. It will be over soon, Sherlock thought as he got up to be led to one of the torture chambers. This time they tied him up between the walls, his arms stretched, his ankles secured on the floor. This was a good position to look at the client and deduce what he needed to provoke him.

 

The next client was a man of same age as Sherlock, slightly obese and it took Sherlock merely a few glances to deduce that at home his wife was the dominant partner in the relationship. Perfect, he thought. Sherlock didn’t wait for the man to decide what he would do to him but just spit out his deductions. And as expected the man lost control immediately and started boxing Sherlock. His fist hit Sherlock’s jaw, his ribs. The guards were storming in just as the client kicked Sherlock with his knee in his ribcage. Sherlock wasn’t sure if somebody else but him heard the cracking sound of his ribs. When the guards tried to wrench the client away Sherlock received one more kick and he knew that was it as he felt how a rib punctured his lung. Sherlock felt a strange kind of relieve. This should kill him, it would take a while but it would kill him. With that thought in mind he noticed that the guards untied him and let him down to the floor.

 

“Get the doctor.” The older guard yelled.

 

A doctor, no, no, Sherlock thought. He tried to move. If he would move he could aggravate his injuries, maybe get the guards to hit him as well. Despite being barley able to breathe Sherlock tried to get up, but the guards quickly held him down. And only seconds late he felt the prick of a needle in his neck and the world went black.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock woke up he groaned. Pain shot through his body. He tried to move but realized that he was tied down to a bed, several belts were spanned over his legs, his pelvis and his shoulders. His wrists and his ankles were additionally restrained. Sherlock could only move his head and he noticed that a nasal oxygen prong was attached to his head and an IV line was place in his right hand. He was not in his cell but in plain white room. Beside his bed there was only a small table with medical equipment and a steel table like the ones found in a morgue. Above it was a lamp, the same kind that was used in operating theatres. At the left side was only a small window and Sherlock could see bits and pieces of a bright blue sky. Suddenly the door opened and an older man came in.

  
“Ahh, you are awake.” The man said smiling. His hand reached out and prodded his ribcage. Every touch felt like someone tried to stab him. Sherlock hissed in pain.

 

“Don’t think you will get any pain medication.” The man growled.

 

“You are the doctor.” Sherlock stated.

 

“I can’t remember that I gave the material the permission to speak.” The man said viciously before he slapped Sherlock in the face several time. “You thought you could provoke a client to kill you. Well, it nearly worked. You have several broken ribs and one of them punctured your lung.” The man made a pause. “You didn’t listen.”

 

“What?” Sherlock asked. The words spoken earned him a few more slaps to his face.

 

“Still didn’t get that you have no right to speak, material?” The man spoke with a mean smile. “Well, we will teach you.” He made another pause. “You didn’t listen to what your brother told you. Your brother wants you alive and we will keep you alive. And you will not get another chance to provoke a client.” With that the man got up and left the room.

 

 

Sherlock was left in the room alone. In the following days the doctor treated him. When Sherlock was finally deemed to leave the room they sedated him once more and he woke up in his cell. At least he was left untouched for what felt like a longer period of time after the incident, but when his injuries were a bit healed a new ordeal started. His life was saved only to suffer even more in the future. When the next client came Sherlock tried again to provoke him. He had nothing left to lose, but the client had obviously been warned by the guards. As Sherlock spat out his deduction the man just smiled. He kept perfect control and when he left the guards came in.

 

“Didn’t we make it clear to you that the material has no right to talk unless ask and that we don’t tolerate that kind of disobedient behavior.” The oldest guard snarled, the doctor by his side grinned.

 

Sherlock’s anew attempt to provoke a client earned him to be raped and abused by the guards and the doctor for what felt like hours. Every time he impended to pass out they paused, he was awoken with cold water and then they continued. When they finally stopped and untied him he dropped to the ground, shaking in pain and cold. He just wanted to die but he knew that they were careful. The doctor made sure of that.

 

“We don’t want to damage the precious material.” He had said with a laugh and then he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “We made a nice video of this for your brother.”

 

Back in his cell Sherlock curled up on the mattress too weak to move he knew that he had to endure whatever his brother had planned. There was no way to escape, no way to commit suicide. Sherlock didn’t try again to provoke a client. It was his brother’s decision to prolong his suffering for as long as possible and Sherlock now knew that there was no way to escape. The only hope he had left was that maybe Sherrinford’s plan has failed and that Mycroft was looking for him.


	7. A suspicion

He didn’t believe it when he heard it the first time, but he also couldn’t dismiss it. He was one of the very few people that knew Anton Baracnik was Sherrinford Holmes, twin brother to Sherlock Holmes. Victor sat in his small London flat and read the mails of his different informants again. God, why hadn’t he monitored him a bit closer? But it couldn’t be true that Mycroft had sent his brother on a mission infiltrating Baracnik’s network, sending him into the arms of that psychopath. Victor had met Sherrinford in person when they all studied in Cambridge and he knew that he surley was one of the most dangerous and unpredictable persons he had ever met. And in the past few years he met enough people who confirmed that view. Moriarty was a crazy criminal mastermind, no doubt about that, but he was always interested in his business first, expect when it came to one Sherlock Holmes. That obsession was truly psychopathic. But Sherrinford was even crazier and in a much more vicious way that made people fear him even when they worked on his side. He was known for enjoying violence. Victor had successfully avoided working for him; of course, also because he feared Sherrinford would recognize him and be reminded of his past connection to Sherlock. That would be surley a death sentence. And now Sherlock was sent into his arms. That couldn’t be.

 

Victor contacted Mycroft. He wanted to confront the older Holmes about the mission. The respond to his request came fast. It was a simple e-mail, stating that Sherlock had died on a mission in Eastern Europe. Attached was an invitation to the funeral. Victor gasped, reading the mail over and over again. That couldn’t be true. During Sherlock’s mission to dismantle Moriarty’s network Victor had, unbeknown to Sherlock of course, always kept an eye on the man he still loved. And now he had lost him. He cursed himself for not being more observant, but after Sherlock had been shot he was sure that the man would take his time to recover and so Victor had agreed to a job that took him to Asia for some months. It took much longer than expected and he had only time to ask his informants about Sherlock every now and then. Now Sherlock was dead and Victor felt his chest tighten in pain. He knew he wanted to attend the funeral, not only to say goodbye, but also to confront Mycroft. How could the older brother allow this to happen?

 

* * *

The service was held in a very small chapel not far from the Holmes family home. The chapel was packed with people, but there were not more than twenty. Victor knew only a few of them by sight and he decided to stay in the background and wait for a moment to talk to Mycroft. He wasn’t sure if any of Sherlock’s friends knew who he was. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock talking about him to any of them. He for sure knew that Sherlock’s parents would recognize him and they would probably not take it kindly to see him here. They blamed him for Sherlock’s drug abuse and they were probably right. If he hadn’t taken up the job that Mycroft had offered him, Sherlock would had not broken up with him, would not have felt betrayed by him, would not have tried to forget him by taking drugs. The past flashed before his eyes and he barely recognized that the service came to an end. When the coffin was carried through the aisle he caught Mycroft’s eye and Victor silently formed the words “Need to talk” on his lips and noticed Mycroft’s small nod.

 

Victor didn’t follow the funeral procession to the cemetery. He didn’t want to condole the family and surley not Sherlock’s friend who had no idea who he was. Instead he waited beside the entrance on a bench. It was a sunny and still warm autumn afternoon. The late afternoon sun gave the cemetery a golden glow, nearly cheerful. After a while the first funeral guest streamed past him. No one looked at him. He watched John who carried his daughter and he looked as devastated as his wife. For a moment Victor thought that Mary would notice him, but it has been a long time since they have last met and she had her eyes on the ground. It took another half hour before Mr. and Mrs. Holmes walked past him, thankfully not looking into his direction either. After another few minutes Mycroft appeared in front of his bench. He looked tired and sad and Victor could see his internal fight not to show his emotions, but his time living with a Holmes made Victor see through the façade.

 

“Sit down.” Victor said. “We need to talk.”

 

“Talk about what?” Mycroft asked slightly agitated, but he sat down on the bench nevertheless.

 

“Anton Baracnik.” Victor said. “You sent your brother to infiltrate his headquarter.”

 

Mycroft didn’t answer. He didn’t even asked how Victor knew about this top secret mission.

 

“Did he know who he was facing?” Victor asked, hardly able not to sound angry.

 

“He knew it was a dangerous mission. If you know about it you surley also know that he had killed Magnussen in front of witnesses and that it was this mission or prison. He chose the mission.” Mycroft explained. He sounded tired and defeated. “I tried to protect him, having another agent placed in the organization as well, but in the end I couldn’t help him.”

 

“You haven’t answered my question. Did he know who he was facing?” Victor snarled.

 

“He knew that Baracnik was a dangerous man.” Mycroft hissed.

 

Victor realized that Mycroft still had no idea who Baracnik really was. For a few seconds Victor contemplated to tell him, but decided against it. He needed more information. Something was wrong.

 

“You recovered his body?” Victor asked.

 

“What was left of it. When my other agent arrived the body was already burnt to a degree that no normal ways of identification could be used, but he was able to gather evidence for DNA testing. It was Sherlock, no doubt. It took us another three weeks to transfer the body home as he had been buried in a local cemetery.” Mycroft said tonelessly.

 

“How was he killed?” Victor asked.

 

“Head shot.” Mycroft stated flatly and stood up. “I am sorry, Victor. I knew you would have liked it to be different. I would have liked that too, but…” He took one deep breath. “There is nothing we can do to change it.” With that Mycroft got up and walked away.

 

Victor watched him walk away. Something was wrong. He got up. For a moment he stood in front of the entrance to the cemetery thinking about visiting the fresh grave, but he couldn’t help the feeling that whoever was buried there that it wasn’t Sherlock. He couldn’t really explain it. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he trusted his gut feeling. He slowly walked up to his car and thought about the next steps. He had work to do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess it is time to admit that this will not be a Johnlock fiction. I am sorry for everyone who hoped for that kind of turn. My next fan fiction, once this one is finished, will definitely be a Johnlock, but this one not. Hope you still enjoy reading it.


	8. A special client

Sherlock was woken up by the guards opening the creaking door of his cell and he instantly shuffled to the middle of the room, head down, hands stretched out. He had given up any kind of resistance.  There was no use in resisting. It only brought more pain. Instead those movements had become a well trained reflex.

 

“Today you are going to have a special client.” The older guard said with glee in his voice.

 

Sherlock was brought to the bathroom, showered with cold water and then brought upstairs. He was chained up between the walls, arms stretched out, putting a nearly unbearable pressure on his shoulder joints and muscles. His ankles were tied to two hooks at the floor leaving no room for any kind of movement. He was left this way for what felt like hours, wet, freezing and tired. The longer he had to wait the more difficult he found it to keep standing. He was barely able to support himself anymore when the door of the chamber was opened. But instead of another client Sherlock saw his brother.

 

“Oh, my lovely little brother, I must say I am impressed. I wouldn’t have thought that you would make it that long.” Sherrinford said with smile as he moved closer and his finger started to touch Sherlock’s strained arms. As much as Sherlock wished to avoid this touch he couldn’t get away, he just had to endure it.

“How is your little mind palace? Crumpled into pieces?” Sherrinford teased in a way that made Sherlock shiver. “You know I read a lot about the effects of different torture techniques on the human mind. My clients prefer causing pain, but I know that you are able to bear a lot of pain. So I hope you liked the little distractions my guards provided. I can imagine that the sleep and sensory deprivation left you mind palace in quite a state.”

 

Sherlock didn’t look up, but he could feel his brother smile. “Why don’t you get over with whatever you want to do?” Sherlock sneered.

 

“Oh, don’t worry, I will start in a moment.” His brother said. “Don’t be impatient.” He slowly turned around and walked to the small table in the corner. He took a long leather whip from it and walked around Sherlock. “Seeing all those clients and even my guards having fun with you I just couldn’t resist to come here and have some fun myself.”

 

Sherlock heard the whip slashing through the air behind him before it made contact with his back. While the first few strokes were painful, it was still bearable. With each stroke the nerves in his skin became tetchier and after a few very hard strokes Sherlock felt how the skin was torn, the pain became increasingly excruciating. He forced himself not to scream, something he had long been given up with his usual tormentors, but he didn’t want to give his brother the satisfaction. And as expected his brother didn’t like that.

 

“Oh, you can scream, don’t hold back. You know I have seen the videos. Your screams sound so nice.” Sherrinford whispered in his ear before using the whip again and again. Sherlock felt how the whip shredded his skin, he felt the blood running down his back and his legs. The burning sensation spread all over his back. He desperately wanted to scream, but just as he was about to do so his brother stopped. He came around and placed a chair in front of Sherlock and sat down.

 

 “Oh, and just so that you know. You were declared dead and buried. Mycroft and our precious parents buried the burnt corpse I provided. You are officially dead to the world.” Sherrinford smiled and picked a newspaper out of his pocket and held it up for Sherlock to see. The article proved his statement as it showed a picture from his funeral. His brother, John, Lestrade and Mike Stamford were shown, grieve-stricken carrying the coffin. His parents walked just behind the coffin and even though the picture was grainy he saw that they were crying. Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore. He knew that this would happen, but he had always hoped he would be wrong. He had to admit that Ford was too clever, even for Mycroft. But seeing the article and knowing that indeed nobody would look for him, that he would die here, but that it could take weeks or months until his body would finally give up, that was devastating. He didn’t want to listen to what his brother said to him anymore. He hardly noticed that Sherrinford got up from the chair and walked up to a position behind him. Sherlock heard the whip slicing through the air again, but this time he didn’t even try to suppress the scream anymore when the whip met his skin. He faintly noticed that each of his screams was accompanied by his brother amusement, his laughs, but he no longer had the will to offer any kind of opposition. Sherrinford was mocking him all the time. Sherlock could sense the pleasure his twin took in seeing him suffer. When his brother finally stopped the whipping he came close again. He ran his fingers over the bloody, ripped skin of Sherlock’s back. If Sherlock would have had any strength left in his body he would have tried to get away from this touch, but he was bound to tight and too weak anyway. Pain buzzed through his body, fogging his senses.

 

Sherrinford leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I think you have enough for now. But seeing you like this, bloody and damaged, that is just glorious. I think it is time to sell you to some of my more viscous clients, so that I will see you like this more often. The honeymoon period is over.”

 

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Sherlock rasped his voice hoarse from screaming.

 

“You want that, don’t you?” Sherrinford chuckled. “So go on, beg me to kill you, to end your suffering.”

 

Sherlock hesitated a moment. He was sure his brother would not grant him this wish, but he had nothing left to lose. So he begged. “Please, kill me.” It was barely more than a whisper.

 

“I haven’t heard you, little brother.” Sherrinford said taking a step close.

 

“Please, Ford, just kill me.” Sherlock said a little louder, desperation leaking through his voice.

 

“Hmm, let me think about it.” Sherrinford answered and after a pause he continued. “No, why should I. I can still make good money with you and I just love to see you all bloody and bruised.” The next moment the whip slashed across Sherlock’s arms leaving burning marks, but after a few strike his brother finally stopped. “This is so satisfying. Maybe I will come more often to visit you.” Sherrinford said before left.

 

 

Sherlock could hear him talking to his guards ordering them to bring in the doctor to treat the wounds. When the guards opened the shackles Sherlock just fell to the floor. They ordered him to move, even tasered him with the cattle prod, but he was too weak. He barely recognized how he was brought to the sick chamber and treated by the doctor again. After that the guards dragged him to his cell and dumped him on the floor. Sherlock lay there for – he couldn’t say for how long – before he carefully crawled to the mattress and tried to find a position that wasn’t too painful. He tried desperately not to think about home, about Baker Street, his violin, about Mrs. Hudson and her tea and biscuits. And especially he tried not to think about his friends, about John and Mary and the little girl that surly was born by now and that he would never ever see. And about Molly and the experiments he would never perform in her lab. And about Lestrade, Greg, and the cases he would solve with him right now if he weren’t imprisoned in this ongoing nightmare. And then the picture of his crying parents and Mycroft’s guilty face crossed his mind. They all believed that he was dead, mourning him with no idea that he was still alive.

 

Thinking about home, about his friend and family made him even more desperate. He started sobbing, couldn’t suppress the tears anymore. He sobbed and sobbed, even though each movement caused further pain in his abused body. He had been so good at avoiding those thoughts in the last weeks, but now they crept relentlessly into his thoughts. He needed to get rid of those thoughts and focus on something else, on someone else. It had worked well in the past weeks, so he tried it again. He went into his mind palace to the room dedicated to Victor. While most of his mind palace lay in ruins that room was astoundingly still fine. It resembled flat they shared in Cambridge. And there he was – Victor, smiling at him. Strangely enough thinking of Victor was not so depressing. Maybe it was because he hasn’t seen Victor for so many years, maybe because he wasn’t even sure if he was alive anymore. Victor and their shared happy past was so long ago that it was surreal and thereby somehow soothing. Victor wasn’t an option even if he would be back in London. Victor was a past that could not be resurrected and now it was the only harbor of tranquility. So every time the pain and the thoughts of home threatened to overwhelm him, Sherlock thought of Victor.

 

* * *

His brother’s announcement was fulfilled soon. The closed season was definitely over. Sherlock thought it couldn’t become worse, but he was proven wrong. The next clients were more vicious, were allowed to hit him, not hard enough to cause fatal damage but enough to leave him bruised all over. They burnt him with cigarettes and cut him with knives, but all wounds were treated – albeit badly – by the doctor afterwards.

 

About two weeks – Sherlock wasn’t sure if his sense of time was correct anymore – after his brother’s visit Sherlock was brought up into one of the chambers to find for the first time he was not alone to face whatever the next client thought to be fun. He was tied to a chair and in a chair opposite sat a young woman. Of course, Sherlock knew that he wasn’t the only person that was abused in this house. He had heard the doors of the cells next to his being opened and closed, had heard the guards yelling commands and he had heard the screams. He had identified the voices of at least two women and right at the beginning another man, but he hadn’t heard his screams for a while. And now a blonde woman sat in a chair opposite. She was in her mid-twenties Sherlock deduced and judging by the bruises and the state of her skin she was here for quite some time as well. He just thought about saying something when the older guard spoke.

 

“Remember the rules. You are only allowed to speak when you are asked to do so. If you try to talk to each other we will punish you.” The guard smiled and put a finger under Sherlock’s jaw to force him to look up. “But of course you can talk if you have a need for some punishment.”

 

Sherlock ignored this provocation and said nothing. The guard smirked and turned around and left.

For the next few minutes the woman and Sherlock were left alone. They both looked at each other and although they didn’t know each other there was a silent kind of understanding between them. Sure there was the fact that they were both caught in the same hell, unable to escape. So they communicated with looks, with raised eyebrows, with small smiles. For each other they were humans, not material to be used and abused. And although the horror of their current existence would be back in a few minutes, the fact that they were not alone was a strange comfort. Sherlock snorted quietly. He was so broken, that the fact that a woman he didn’t know was in the same situation as he, was a solace amidst all the pain. Wasn’t that a bit not good? His thoughts were interrupted when the door of the room was opened, surly by the next client.

 

“Ah, perfect.” The older man, who came in, said while he walked around; he ran his fingers over the body of the woman who shivered under the touch. Then he moved up to Sherlock who glared at him. “I’ve heard that you are a feisty one. That will be fun.”

 

Sherlock expected to be beaten, electrocuted or whipped, but none of that happened. Instead he had to watch how the young woman was tortured, how she screamed, how she flinched away from every touch. It went on for what felt like hours. In-between Sherlock couldn’t stand to watch it. He wanted to look away, but the guards forced him to watch. At one point he asked the client to stop. That of course was stupid. The client just turned around and laughed. He pulled out the remote for the shock collar and pushed the button. Sherlock screamed as his body spasmed. After that the client asked a guard to gag him and so he had to helplessly watch what the client did to the woman. In the end he saw her die. It was an electro shock, one too many. Her eyes went wide before her body went limp. The guards came in and opened the restraints that held her in the chair. The body fell to the floor with a quite thump and was carried away. Sherlock knew he should have been shocked, should feel some kind of commiseration or sorrow, but he only felt envy. She was free and he was still in hell. And just to remind him of that fact as soon as the door to the chamber was closed the client stood in front of him and smiled viciously.

 

“She couldn’t take that much. I am quite sure you are much stronger.”


	9. Playing the devil

At the beginning it was just a gut feeling, but Victor knew that he had to follow it, no matter what. He wasn’t satisfied with the explanation Mycroft had given him at the funeral. Something was wrong. Something in his gut told him, that that story might not be true and so he started to investigate, hoping for the evidence to prove it wrong. An unrecognizable burnt body. That wasn’t the style of Baracnik. He put his dead enemies on display, made sure other’s recognized them and recognized the pain they had suffered before they died. A kill shot in the head, not his style at all. He made a show out of killing his enemies. Why would he not do that with Sherlock? No, something was off, and Victor was determined to find out what it was.

 

It took him too long for his taste to find some clues. He had to pay off quite a number of people for their tips, but it had finally led to a useful lead. It was an old estate in the countryside not far from Budapest now used for a sick business. Behind the large walls of the old manor people, who paid enough, got the opportunity to torture or even kill someone just for fun. Victor had known before that Baracnik ran such an establishment. Within certain circles it was no secret. He used it to dispose of people that came in his way, people that put his criminal businesses at risk, but even people from within his network risk to end up there if they opposed his wishes or did something wrong. The idea that Baracnik, that Sherrinford, had put his own brother in there made Victor shudder. If that was true he might not even be alive anymore. The thought crossed his mind more than once, but he always banished it immediately. Victor had calculated from the sparse information he had found that Sherlock’s last contact with his MI6 handler was nearly three months ago. Three month is a long time, but Victor needed to find out and so he had made an appointment. He reckoned that posing as a client would be the easiest way to get into the manor. It was a risk, but he was willing to take it. He had interrogated a former client in order to get enough information to make his demeanor authentic. He had bought the supplies he needed as well as a sports car in Budapest and he had paid the initial fee. Now he had put on an outfit that radiated money and determination. And as expected he was led into the manor without another question.

 

* * *

“I want to see the material and chose who I deem useful.” Victor said to the guard. He needed to see them all to make sure he would find Sherlock.

 

“Yes, Sir. Follow me.” The man at the door answered. He wore a kind of black uniform and led Victor to a hallway on the ground floor. “We have already prepared our material for you. Unfortunately at the moment we can only offer three options.”

 

The first door was opened and Victor saw a slim blonde woman, bruised all over, and bound to a chair with a gag in her mouth.

“I am not interested in women.” He said, trying to hide his disgust.

 

“Yes, Sir, I am sorry to tell you that we have only one man to offer you.” The guard said apologetically.

 

“Well, show me.” Victor said and as he followed the guard down the hallway he prayed that this man was Sherlock. The door was opened and Victor stood in the doorway for a moment. He needed all his power not to rush to the man who was bound with two chains between the walls of the room. Even though he couldn’t see the face as the man held his head down, he was sure that it was Sherlock. The hair was matted and badly cut, but he would recognize those dark curls everywhere. He was shocked to see how thin Sherlock was, how broken. Bruises and wounds were everywhere. But Victor forced himself to concentrate. He couldn’t make a mistake now. So he walked up to the man, touching the marred back, covered with wounds, some of them barely healed, others quite fresh and badly stitched. He noticed the bruised ribs, the labored breathing, the stifled coughs and the feverish hot skin. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t look up. Victor wasn’t quite sure whether this was because of fear or because he was too exhausted. Seeing the abused body close-up he took a deep breath. He was sure this was Sherlock. Victor knew every freckle on that body. He needed to stay cool. Victor walked up to the table pretending to inspect the tools the manor provided, before turning to the guard again.

 

“Very well, I will take him, even though he is not in the condition I like the material to be in.” Victor said trying to sound annoyed. “I want to have two sessions. One today in about an hour, the other tomorrow in the morning. I will use my own tools.”

 

“Very well, sir. The charge will be determined by the length of the session and by the damage that you will inflict on the material.” The guard explained like this was a normal business.

 

“The material is already pretty damaged. Is that foot broken?” Victor asked feigning irritation.

 

“Yes, but as you can see we bound him up.” The guard hastily said. “And of course we consider prior damage in regards of the charge.” They obviously didn’t want to annoy a new client.

 

“That sounds good.” Victor said with a forced smile. “I want to be free of any restrictions once I get started. I was told I don’t have to care for anything, even if the damage is fatal.”

 

“Sure, you don’t have to hold back. If you kill him, we will charge that as well.” The guard said with a smile and Victor was glad that his gun was hidden in the suitcase. Otherwise he wasn’t sure if he would have kept his self-control and not simply kill this disgusting man.

 

“Very well, show me my room then. I want to rest a bit before I start. And get him out of those chains. He can lie down on the floor. I like to tie him up myself later. And remove that collar. I don’t work with that kind of equipment.” Victor said and tried to put disdain in his voice. He knew once he would start his rescue operation there would be no time to waste on opening those shackles or removing that bloody shock collar. In addition, he could see that Sherlock was so weak that any minute spent in this tied-up, obviously painfull position was one minute too much.

 

“As you wish.” The guard answered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They left the cell even though Victor desperately wanted to tell Sherlock that he would come back to save him, but he knew he couldn’t risk his plan with that kind of thoughts. With the bad state Sherlock was in he also wasn’t sure if he would recognize him. He hadn’t tried to look up once even though he must have recognized his voice. While walking up to his room Victor asked the guard for more information about the manor in order to determine the number of people that he would have to face. Fortunately the number of employees seemed to be manageable. Once in the room, they had given him, he first searched the whole room for any spying devices, surprised that he only found a small microphone but no camera. He set up his laptop. Wifi was one of the amenities for the guests staying here and he used it to hack in their system which was ridiculously easy. It just took him twenty minutes to download all the important files about their clients from their server. The files were in protected folders, but again it was a rather childish kind of protection. They felt safe, Victor mused as he transferred all files to a USB-Stick and put it in his pocket. He also found the connection to the server’s of Sherrinford’s headquarter and could see that videos were uploaded regularly. He didn’t dare to risk hacking into that system. Better not to wake sleeping dogs. Instead he started to unpack his suitcase in order to get his weapons out of the hidden compartment. He would not get back to this room. Slowly he placed explosives in different corners of the room. He smiled at the thought that they have given him the room in the middle of the manor without knowing that it would perfectly fulfill his needs. An explosion here would destroy the house completely, he was quite sure of that.

 


	10. Hallucinations

Sherlock came to the conclusion that he was finally losing his mind. Since Sherrinford’s visit the torture had become worse, the damage done to his body was immense. Now even when he was left alone in his cell his body buzzed with constant pain, making it impossible to find any kind of rest. And in addition his brother had ordered the wounds no longer to be treated properly and the food rations to be downsized. While Sherlock had once tried to dehydrate himself to death only a couple of weeks before, being forced to eat the small portions and realizing that they would keep him alive but make him weaker at the same time, that was a different kind of torture. Furthermore the guards mocked him by saying that the boss thought that he was too fat. His brother had to really enjoy this. Sherlock has already accepted that he would die here eventually and with the more vicious torture and the different treatment in-between that moment seemed to approach. Over the last few days he had also developed a fever. The last client had a passion for beating him with a crowbar which left Sherlock with deep bruises and several broken ribs in addition to those which were already fractured a few days earlier. It made breathing nearly unbearable and Sherlock was sure that he was about to develop pneumonia. And as his wounds very no longer treated thoroughly the abrasions on his wrists and ankles as well as some wounds on his back were infected as well.

 

Hence Sherlock blamed the fever for this hallucination. It must be the fever for he had recognized Victor to be the next client. While he was not really able to lift his head to look at the man who entered the chamber he was sure that it was Victor’s voice, but what he said was so wrong. He just sounded like any other client, talking about the planned torture like it was nothing, talking about him as material, as something non-human to break and play with just as he wanted to do, just like the other clients, like the guards and just like his psychopathic brother. No, it couldn’t be Victor. It couldn’t be. Or could it be that his Victor was just like the other disgusting people who came here to torture him for fun? He hadn’t seen Victor for years and he knew he worked in a business where violence was a common occurrence. What if the man he once loved like no one else before and afterwards had changed in a way Sherlock could not imagine. Could a person change that much? But no, he was surely hallucinating. This wasn’t Victor. He had thought about Victor a lot the last few days and now his mind played tricks on him.

 

 

Sherlock just wanted to try to raise his head in order to take a closer look at the man, but he was just leaving the room. The guards came up to him and released from the shackles and even removed the collar. He fell to the floor with a thump, not really able to catch himself. Pain ran through his body as it made contact with the floor. Nevertheless, Sherlock was glad to lie down for a bit. The last client had managed to break his left radius and also at least some metatarsal bones in his left foot. Being tied up in those shackles for what felt like hours, was a source of constant pain added to the pain of the broken ribs and the various wounds. He knew it would only be a short relief before another ordeal would start, but maybe he was lucky and he would die this time. The next client, who was surly not Victor, has made it quite clear that he might go too far, that he might kill him. That left Sherlock with some hope that today or tomorrow his stay in this hell would finally end. With that thought he fell asleep on the cold concrete floor.

 

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t tell how long he had slept but he was woken by something that sounded like gunshots. Just seconds later the door to the chamber was opened and in the doorframe stood Victor with a gun in his hand. This had to be a hallucination, Sherlock thought. This couldn’t be true.

 

“Hi Will, time to go.” Victor said smiling while running up to him.

 

“Vic?” Sherlock whispered, unbelieving that this was really happening, but he felt Victor’s hand running through his hair.

 

“Yes, Will, it’s me. Can you walk?” Victor asked as he carefully helped Sherlock to get up. Walking, hardly, Sherlock thought. He already had problems to stand on his own. He wanted to ask something, but the next moment he was gasping for air as Victor held him tight to keep him upright.

 

“Sorry.” Victor murmured. “We need to go, fast.” And with that Victor dragged Sherlock out of the room. In the end he nearly had to carry Sherlock as he really couldn’t walk with the broken foot. They passed several dead guards, all killed with shots to the head. Sherlock wondered whether Victor was alone, if that really was Victor. Had Mycroft sent him? Was Mycroft waiting outside?

 

Upstairs another guard tried to stop them, but Victor managed a clean shot even with the weight of Sherlock in one arm. Somehow they got out of the manor. Sherlock shivered in the cold autumn air as he was still naked. The fresh air and the exhaustion made everything pass in a blur. This was too strange to not be a dream, Sherlock thought as he watched how Victor shot two more guards outside. Then they walked up to the car park Sherlock was deposited on the passenger seat of a sports car. As they drove off, Victor stopped just past the gate and pressed the red button of the small remote to ignite the explosives his room. The manor crumpled to dust. With a smile Victor turned to Sherlock, who was curled up on the passenger seat, freezing and in pain, starring at the other man.

 

“It is over, Will.” Victor said with a soft voice. He grabbed a blanket from the back to carefully place it over the shivering body beside him.

 

“Vic?” Sherlock rasped. This must be a hallucination. His brain made this up.

 

“Yes, Will. You are safe. Try to sleep.” Victor whispered and placed a soft kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

 

It felt so real. It felt so good, too good to be true. Someone, Victor, he thought, had placed a blanket over him and had kissed him. Sherlock wanted to say something, but he didn’t have the strength. For a moment he thought if there was a way to determine whether this was real or not, but he couldn’t really think, his mind palace in ruins, his body too exhausted. He just looked at the other man, trying to process what had just happened.

 

“It is okay, Will. Sleep. You are safe.” Victor repeated, seeing the confusion in the other man’s eyes. His hand ghosted over Sherlock’s trembling body before he turned away and started the car again.

 

Safe, Sherlock thought, safe sounded good. And if this was a dream he would at least enjoy it as long as it lasted. With that thought he allowed himself to drift off.

 

 


	11. No easy way home

When Sherlock woke up he immediately noticed the difference. This was not his dark and damp cell. It wasn’t cold and he was not on the dingy mattress, but in a normal bed. Sunlight streamed through a large window and he could see trees and a blue sky from his bed. For a moment he thought that he was in the hospital room of the manor, saved once more by the doctor just to suffer more in the future. But this was a different room. More furniture made out of warm dark wood, the window larger, the color on the walls a fresh and light yellow. He noticed that he was not restrained and he was in considerable less pain. He looked at the IV line which was attached to his right hand. Both wrists were bandaged with soft white dressings as were his other wounds. He wanted to get up but as he leaned on his arms a fierce pain shot through his left arm and left him gasping. Broken, his mind reminded him. He leaned back and tried to breathe calmly and let the pain ebb away.

 

“You shouldn’t try to get up, at least not without my help.” A familiar voice said. Victor stood in the doorway and smiled at him. He slowly walked up to the bed and sat down on the mattress. With his hand he carefully brushed away a curl from Sherlock’s face.

 

Sherlock stared at the other man for a while. “It is really you.” He whispered. It was Victor, he just looked liked Sherlock remembered him, soft light brown hair, deep dark green eyes, a few more wrinkles here and there. Sherlock felt tears forming in his eyes.

 

“Yes, Will, it is me.” Victor emphasized his word by touching Sherlock’s cheek, gently wiping away the tears that by now have left his eyes.

 

“I thought it was a dream.” Sherlock said with a quiet sob that ended in a wracking cough.

 

“No, it wasn’t.” Victor answered, gently helping Sherlock to sit up to make the coughing a bit easier. He waited until the coughing subsided and then he carefully helped him to sit up against the headboard, arranging a pillow so that the wounds on Sherlock’s back were not irritated too much. “You need to rest. We don’t have much time. I want to leave as soon as the infusion is finished. We are in the house of a doctor, I once helped, but it is not that far away from the manor. And I am not quite sure if we are followed and I would rather not find out that we are. We need to get back to England. You need a proper hospital. I will contact Mycroft as soon as we are in Czechia. Maybe he can send us a plane to Prague.” He explained, again stroking Sherlock’s too long hair from his forehead.

 

“No, no. You can’t contact Mycroft.” Sherlock hastily replied. “He is compromised.” Sherlock couldn’t suppress another cough that made him wince in pain.

 

“Compromised?” Victor asked while getting a glass with water from the nightstand, carefully letting Sherlock sip from it.

 

“The agent who was supposed to help me was on Baracnik’s payroll. And I think Mycroft doesn’t know that Baracnik is …” Sherlock stopped, unable to say it.

 

“Your brother Sherrinford.” Victor finished the sentence and nodded.

 

“You know?” Sherlock asked confused.

 

“Yes, I know and I also know that Mycroft doesn’t know.” Victor began to explain. “Short version: I was surprised to learn that you were sent on a mission to infiltrate Baracnik’s headquarter. I wanted to confront Mycroft about it, but then he told me that you had died. I went to your funeral and when I talked to Mycroft afterwards I realized that he had no clue that Baracnik is Sherrinford. And then he told me what has happened and I also realized that you might be still alive. Sherrinford has burnt your body, well, the body he used to make anyone believe that you were killed. Anyway, that was not the way he usually disposed his enemies. Things didn’t add up and so I did some research. It took me a couple of weeks to find a lead and luckily it led me to you.” Victor smiled.

 

Sherlock smiled weakly. Victor was real, he was here and he had saved him. He closed his eyes for a moment.

 

“So, if we can’t contact Mycroft directly we need to find another way to get back to England and then find a way to contact him.” Victor said.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded.

 

“We need to be careful. Sherrinford maybe has more than one mole in your brother’s organization. Knowing Ford he will not be happy about your rescue. He might search for you.” Victor said.

 

Sherlock couldn’t suppress the shudder running through his body at the thought of Sherrinford was searching for them and that he might eventually find them. Victor seemed to sense his fears.

“I will not allow him to get you again.” He said sternly.

 

“Okay.” Sherlock whispered, unsure what else he should say.

 

“So, we leave as soon as possible and we need to think about a secure way to contact Mycroft.”

 

“We can send him an encrypted message.” Sherlock said.

 

“Yes, something like that. Can you think about an encryption that only Mycroft will understand and that he will immediately connect with you?” Victor asked.

 

“Yeah, I have an idea.” Sherlock answered and coughed a bit. He felt so exhausted. He was in considerable less pain, but far from pain-free.

 

Victor looked at him with a worried expression. “You should rest now. I will pack our stuff and get some more medical supplies and then we are off. If we cannot count on Mycroft to get us back to England we better be off earlier.” He gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on the forehead and left the room.

 

Sherlock looked at the closed door for a moment and then he looked at the blue sky that he could see from his bed. He was safe, free. It was still kind of surreal. He wanted to sleep, but he also wanted to find the encryption that they would need and so he went to his mind palace. The past months have left it in ruins. It was pure chaos, so many rooms completely destroyed, but there were still rooms, still information stored, albeit in a chaotic state. He knew he needed a certain cipher to send a message to Mycroft and he wanted to find it before he rested.


	12. A message from a ghost

Mycroft was working on some boring paper when Anthea entered his office.

 

“This arrived for you this morning. No sender, but security cleared it.” Anthea handed him a large brown envelope.

 

“Thank you.” He dismissed her while opening the envelope. Two books appeared, one old worn book about the history of chemistry, the other one a brand new book of “Treasure Island”. Mycroft gasped. That couldn’t be. He looked for a letter or a note in the envelope but there was nothing. He browsed through the books and found pencil notes in the old chemistry book. Frantically he grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and began to decode the message, switching form one book to the other. When he was done he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The message was simple enough. He was compromised; he had a mole among his agents. And an address in Sussex. Nothing more. But it was enough, because only one person in the world would know the meaning of this particular chemistry book and the same person had a strong connection to “Treasure Island” as well – Sherlock. He had given Sherlock exactly the same chemistry book just after Sherrinford had left England. It was meant as an apology and as an encouragement to finish his studies. And “Treasure Island” was Sherlock’s favorite when he was a child. This couldn’t be a coincidence. For a moment Mycroft allowed himself to hope the unthinkable. The weeks since Sherlock’s death was confirmed had been horrible. His mother was not speaking with him anymore. She blamed him for Sherlock’s death and his father didn’t argue her. Mycroft let them think this way, basically because he thought that they were right. It was his fault. He hadn’t protected his brother. And telling Sherlock’s best friend of his death was horrible as well. It was good to see them all at the funeral, but it also added to Mycroft’s guilt.

 

Mycroft looked at the books and tried his best to remain calm, but the death of his brother had truly broken his heart. Since that day he had worked mechanically, tried to avoid having time to think about it, had barley slept as nightmares of Sherlock dying haunted him every night. But now there was hope and Mycroft dared to hope. He stood up and walked to Anthea’s desk.

 

“Anthea. I don’t feel well. I will take some days off. Cancel all my obligations for the next two days.” Mycroft said trying to sound tired which he actually was.

 

“Yes Sir. Do you need anything?” Anthea asked worried.

 

“No, thank you. It is just. I tried to work since …” He stopped. “I just need some time for myself.”

 

“Sure.” Anthea answered.

 

Mycroft was glad that he didn’t have to give her any further explanation. He got back in his office, got his stuff and left. Back at home he immediately packed a small travel bag and searched for the keys of the old Jaguar that he hasn’t used since the funeral, but he didn’t want to risk calling his driver. He also left his official mobile at home and opted for one of the cheap prepaid phones he kept in his desk. He had only one number in there – Anthea. He trusted her, but right now he didn’t want to include her.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft arrived in front of the old cottage in Sussex two hours later. It was already dark and only a very faint light was visible in the house. With a strange feeling Mycroft got out of the car and walked up to the front door, one hand on the gun he had taken with him. The door opened before he could knock.

 

“Hi Mycroft.” Victor said. “Come in. I hope you are alone.”

 

Mycroft wasn’t expecting to be greeted by Victor and he felt a pinch of disappointment and answered angrily. “I am alone. What kind of game do you play, Victor?” Nevertheless, he followed Victor into the cottage.

 

“I don’t play a game. You are compromised. This was the only way we could contact you without risking exposure.” Victor said while they walked through the dark hallway into the living room that was only dimly lit by the light coming from the adjoining kitchen.

 

“We?” Mycroft asked.

 

“We.” Came the raspy reply from the sofa that stood in the darker part of the room.

 

Mycroft froze for a moment as he recognized the voice. He would recognize it everywhere. He rushed to the man and enveloped him in a tight hug without a second thought. “Oh, Sherlock, is that really you?” Mycroft asked with a quivering voice, holding Sherlock tight until he noticed that his brother not only radiated a feverish heat but also quietly whimpered in pain. “Oh god, sorry, did I hurt you?” Mycroft instantly loosened his grip and looked at his brother.

 

“No, I was hurt before.” Sherlock answered and tried to smile through the pain.

 

Mycroft led Sherlock lean back and moved a bit away. The light was dim, but Mycroft could see some bruises on his brother face and he noticed the bandages that covered both wrists. Before Mycroft could ask a question Victor spoke.

“He needs a doctor as soon as possible.”

 

“Victor.” Sherlock interrupted and coughed.

 

“No, Will, first things first. You are injured; your fever and the coughing are getting worse. You need a doctor. Everything else has to wait.” Victor said with a voice and a look that didn’t leave room for any argument.

 

“I agree.” Mycroft said. “You look awful. I call Anthea.”

 

“You trust her?” Victor asked.

 

“I trust her.” Sherlock answered from the sofa.

 

Mycroft got up and looked at them both before turning around to walk to the kitchen to make the call. He knew he could trust Anthea and he knew one doctor he would always trust with the life of his brother. He heard his brother coughing and wincing in pain. When he returned he found Victor siiting beside his brother. Mycroft handed Sherlock a glass of water.

 

“Anthea will get John.” Mycroft said softly.

 

“John?” Sherlock asked a little shocked. He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted John to see him this way, for his friend to know what had happened to him.

 

“We need a doctor we can trust.” Mycroft said and then he sat on the chair opposite of the sofa. “And now tell me what has happened.”

 

Sherlock took another sip of the water before he handed the glass to Victor, his hands trembling with the effort. Then he started to tell the story. With each detail he saw his brother stoic façade crumpling a little bit more.

 

“Oh god, I would have never let you go on this mission had I known that it is him we sent you after.” Mycroft commented, shaking his head.

 

“We need to find out if there is more than the one mole in your organization. And we need to find Sherrinford and find out if he plans to get William.” Victor explained.

 

Mycroft nodded and started talking about what to do next. After a while he noticed that Sherlock had drifted off. Mycroft nodded to Victor who smiled and placed one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders while placing the other under his knees. He carefully got up carrying Sherlock like a bride to the bedroom. Sherlock stirred, panicked a bit, but Victor’s voice calmed him immediately.

“Hush. I just bring you to the bedroom, you need to rest.”

 

It was strange that Victor could carry Sherlock that easy, Mycroft thought while following them.

 

“Turn on the light.” Victor said.

 

Mycroft reached out for the switch. And as the bedroom was suddenly lit by two brighter lamps on the nightstands, he realized just how worn out and thin his brother was. He watched as Victor lowered Sherlock to the bed and he noticed the bandages around both ankles and the swollen and bruised left foot. During their talk Sherlock had only hinted what had happened to him after Sherrinford had captured him, but seeing the bruises, the lack of nourishment and the hints of other more serious injuries made Mycroft gulp. In his head he saw the timeline, from the moment they lost contact and then when the agent, the mole, found the body until now. Three months.

 

Victor gently pulled the duvet over the frail body before sitting down on the mattress, his hand stroking through Sherlock’s curls. “Try to sleep a bit. I will wake you up when John is here.” Victor whispered. He waited until Sherlock fell asleep before he got up and ushered Mycroft out of the room. Once they were both back in the living room Mycroft asked.

 

“Do you know what has happened to him?”

 

Victor just looked at Mycroft like he was not sure if he wanted to answer that question. In the end he sighed before he explained. “He was tortured, repeatedly. He told me that it was once by Sherrinford, the other times by people who paid Sherrinford for it. It was one of his business ventures, an old manor outside of Budapest that provided so called material for people who want to torture humans for fun.” Victor said with disdain in his voice.

 

Mycroft gasped in shock. He had expected a lot, but not that.

 

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t exist anymore. I took care of that.” Victor added with a cold voice before his voice softened again. “I cannot say what they’ve done to him exactly. He hasn’t talked about it, but as I posed as a client to get into the manor I have quite an idea of what they might have done to him. But I haven’t asked him. If he feels the need to talk about it I will listen, but I will not ask him and neither should you. There are more injuries than you just saw. His back is a mess, open wounds, infected, most likely caused by a whip, some cuts and burns. A number of ribs are broken. I think he needs not just a doctor but a hospital, but I also know that that is too risky, as long as we are not sure how many moles Sherrinford had placed close to you. He will look for him. He will want to finish what he began.”

 

Mycroft, still shocked, nodded. “Yes, I guess you are right.”

 

“He will not get Will, only over my dead body. I would rather die and kill Will before allowing his psychopath twin brother to ever touch him again.” Victor said with a grim determination.

 

Mycroft nodded again. “I will do everything I can to stop Ford, everything.”

 

“Good.” Victor said. “So let us develop a plan.”

 

 

 


	13. An unexpected patient

John was clearing his desk while Mary was standing beside him cooing over their little baby girl. It was late in the evening and they were the last one to leave the surgery.  God, he was tired, he just wanted to get home. The weeks since Sherlock’s funeral he had buried himself in work. He had tried not to think about his best friend and especially not how he had died, what he probably had to endure in the hours, days or weeks before. It was still so fresh and it hurt too much. He had truly lost him and whenever he thought about it he was engulfed by guilt. He knew that Sherlock died because he wanted to protect him, protect Mary and his daughter. His beautiful little girl was his solace, while his relationship with Mary was still difficult. He knew she felt guilty as well, he had noticed her nightmares. But they didn’t really talk about it, both trying to avoid the topic fearing it would break them apart.

 

John sighed and got up. “Let’s go home.” He switched off the lights and they walked outside. He was just about to lock the doors when he heard her.

 

“Doctor Watson.” Anthea approached them.

 

John and Mary turned around, surprised to see Anthea not in her usual formal attire, but in jeans and a pea coat, leaning against a bright red Mini that was parked directly in front of the building.

 

“I need your help.” Anthea said firmly.

 

“You need our help?” John asked curiously.

 

“We. Your help, as a doctor.” Anthea added.

 

“We as in Mycroft and you?” John asked

 

“It is important.” Anthea said.

 

“With Mycroft it is always important. Doesn’t he have a doctor?” John asked amused.

 

“He has, but the situation is difficult and he trusts you.” Anthea explained, her voice gave away something John couldn’t really place, but it sounded a bit like she was pleading.

 

Mary raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. John needed a moment to process the situation, but in the end he knew he couldn’t say no. “Okay. What has happened to him? What kind of medical help does he need?”

 

“I don’t know much. He said something about injuries and infections.” Anthea said.

 

John nodded. “Let me get inside and pack some stuff and then we can go.”

 

Only ten minutes later John and Mary were following Anthea’s red Mini in their own car wondering why they were leaving London.

 

“I think you will not only treat a cold.” Mary said after a while.

 

“Yeah, I guess you are right.” John said thoughtfully.

 

 

* * *

 

When they arrived in front of a small cottage John couldn’t deny that he had the creeping feeling that things might be getting dangerous. Anthea in her unusual outfit, no black car, a holiday cottage in the countryside. Something was wrong and he wished Mary and his daughter would have stayed in London. They walked up to the house and were greeted by Mycroft, but instead of letting them in he just stood in the door.

 

“John, thank you for coming.” Mycroft greeted them.

 

“What is going on, Mycroft? You are obviously not in need of medical help.” John asked angrily.

 

“No, I am not.” Mycroft said and paused for a moment, but he didn’t want to beat around the bush. “But Sherlock is.” He saw the shock and disbelief in John’s and Mary’s faces and he hastily added the explanation. “And just before you get it wrong. It isn’t like the last time. I really believed he was dead. God, we had a DNA test. But we were fooled. The agent who should have protected Sherlock betrayed him, betrayed us. He was a mole. He still is. But Victor, an old friend of Sherlock, he didn’t believe that Sherlock was dead and he found him and brought him here. John, Sherlock is injured, badly injured and feverish. He needs your help.”

 

John tried to process what he had just heard, but in the end only the last sentence mattered. “Okay, where is he?”

 

“Follow me.” Mycroft said leading him into the house and to the bedroom.

 

For a moment John stopped in the doorframe and took in what he saw. It was without a doubt Sherlock who was lying in a bed. He seemed asleep, his eyes were closed, but John saw from far that his breathing was labored and that he was in pain. Sherlock looked haggard and worn, he was even paler than usual which made the bruises more visible. There were bandages around both wrists and small beads of sweat on his forehead. John took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

 


	14. Worse than expected

 

John didn’t really notice the man who was sitting beside Sherlock until he tried to wake Sherlock up. He guessed that it was the friend Mycroft talked about.

 

“Will, wake up, John is here.” The man said with a soft low voice.

 

Sherlock stirred and from one moment to the next he tried to get away, wincing in pain, gasping.

 

“Will, it is me Victor. You are safe. We are in Sussex, remember.” The man tried to calm Sherlock down careful not to touch the other man. Those words seemed to work as Sherlock relaxed eventually and slumped back into the cushions, coughing, closing his eyes, his face crunched in pain. John thought for a moment about what must have happened to Sherlock that he panicked in that way, but then he realized that those questions had to wait. He walked up to the bed. He smiled at the other man who got up and took a step away from the bed, so that John could sit down.

 

“Hey Sherlock.” John said gently as he sat down.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed at John. “Hi John.” He said with a weak and raspy voice. “Sorry that I’ve put you through that again.” He coughed. “Wasn’t my intention.”

 

“Shhh, everything is okay. Mycroft explained about the mole and how we were fooled to believe you were dead. Now let me see, how I can help you.”  John said. He looked down to Sherlock’s bandaged wrists and took the left one. Sherlock hissed in pain so John carefully placed the arm back on the duvet.

 

“Okay. Before I hurt you any further with any examination I guess it is easier if you tell me your assessment. You were always pretty good in determining your injuries, while not very good looking after them.” John said trying to ease the situation but also watching Sherlock intensely.

 

Sherlock gulped. He knew he shouldn’t hesitate to tell John what would be inevitable anyway, but saying it out loud would make it so much more real and seeing the horror in John’s eyes was the last thing Sherlock wanted to see. So he turned his head to deliberately looking away at the ceiling while telling John.

 

“Broken radius left, I would guess some broken metatarsalbones, also left, about five broken ribs on the right, about three broken ribs on the left, several more bruised, all fractures maybe about two weeks old, some ribs before that.” Sherlock paused a moment as he heard John taking a deep breath.

“I probably have pneumonia due to the many broken ribs. I have a fever now for about a week or so, maybe longer. I am not very good at estimating the time frame. It is all rather blurry. The cough is getting worse.” Sherlock paused. He was out of breath from those few sentences and another painful cough followed.

 

“He had an infusion with some kind of antibiotics five days ago, some antibiotic pills afterwards, but we ran out of the supplies.” Victor added while they waited for Sherlock’s coughing to subside.

 

John was shocked. Those injuries were worse than expected. “Okay, pain level. What hurts most?” He asked, back in doctor mode.

 

Sherlock nearly snorted at this question. “That is the wrong question. It would be easier for me to determine what doesn’t hurt.” Sherlock answered with a very quiet voice.

 

“Okay, pain medication. What have you taken so far?” John asked.

 

“We ran out of morphine two days ago. I have taken the highest possible dose of paracetamol since then, three today.” Sherlock said.

 

“Okay. I will give you some morphine right now, before I start looking at any injury.” While John prepared the morphine injection Sherlock was able to watch him without being watched himself. He could see that John was barely able maintain his composure. Should he say something, Sherlock thought. He felt a strange urge to comfort John, to tell him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but that would be a lie and one that John would discover very fast. How would he react to all the other injuries? Would he ask how it happened? Then he felt the prick of the needle and the morphine in his bloodstream, the pain really subsided for the first time in days. Sherlock sighed in relief and closed his eyes for a moment. He had nearly forgotten how it felt not to be in so much pain.

 

“Anything else?” John asked. “Your right wrist is bandaged as well.”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes again and took another deeper breath despite the pain it caused even with the morphine. “Both wrists, deep abrasions, slightly infected. Same goes for both ankles.” Sherlock bit his lower lip before he continued. “There are more wounds in different stages of healing, mostly on my back, but also on my thighs and arms. Some of them are infected as well.”

 

“What kind of wounds?” John asked, not sure he really wanted to know. What he heard so far was terrible enough.

 

“Different causes: whips, cigarettes, knives. They have been treated in-between, but only rudimentary.” Sherlock stated, trying to sound detached, but failing miserable as each word brought back vivid images of what had happened. He felt the whip slicing through his skin and even though he knew that it was John’s hand on his arm he couldn’t help the urge to move away. His body started trembling; his breathing accelerated.

 

“Easy. Easy. Try to breathe calmly.” John tried to calm him down. God, this was so much worse than imagined. He saw that Sherlock was on the brink of a flashback.

 

Victor stepped closer. “Will, you are safe. Calm down.”

 

It took a while, but finally Sherlock calmed down. “How is the pain?” John asked.

 

“Bearable.” Sherlock said quietly, embarrassed by his reaction. He hated that he couldn’t control it.

 

“Good. I will have to send Mary to organize some more supplies. I’ll be back in a bit.” With that John left the room and after he had closed the door Sherlock could hear him slump against the door. It took a while before he could hear him getting up again and walking away, into the living room Sherlock presumed. He could hear faint murmur from there. Sherlock closed his eyes. When talking about his injuries already cause that kind of reaction what would happen when John would actually see them. Sherlock wished another doctor, someone he didn’t know, would be here, just like when Mycroft had rescued him from Serbia. Those wounds were nothing against this now, but it would be so much easier with a distant doctor. On the other hand he was glad that John was here. It was soothing and he trusted John.

 

 


	15. Treatment

John needed a moment to regain his composure.  He knew he should have stayed with Sherlock a bit longer, comfort him, talk to him, but he was overwhelmed, by the extent of Sherlock’s injuries and by his own guilt. He didn’t know what exactly has happened to Sherlock but what he had seen so far as well as the descriptions of the injuries only led to one conclusion: torture and that over a longer period of time. John closed his eyes. He took a few deeper breaths before he got up and went to the living room where he found Anthea, Mycroft and Mary with their baby. In the corner of the room stood the man he presumed must be Victor.

 

“I gave him something against the pain.” John started. “He needs a hospital but judging by the way we were summoned here I guess that is not possible. So I need more supplies. Mary will get them.” John sat down and started to write a list. He needed to keep calm and acting as the doctor he was helped him.

 

“Anthea can help you.” Mycroft said.

 

“Treating his wounds will be painful.” John added. “But I cannot give him much more morphine without risking respiratory depression and if his assumption is correct and he indeed has pneumonia than we need to be very careful.”

 

Victor spoke in the background. “He has been through a lot. He will endure it.”

 

John looked at the man but didn’t know what to say. The whole situation was bizarre so he just finished the list. When he was finished with the list Mary and Anthea got up and left, not before they had a short discussion whether the baby could stay with Mycroft or not. But Mycroft insisted that he would be absolutely capable to take care of a baby.

 

When the women had left John looked at Victor. “You are Victor, right?”

 

“Yes.” Victor walked up to him. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself.” He offered his hand for a handshake.

 

“No, it is fine. You treated him so far, right?” John asked.

 

“I tried my best, but we ran out of antibiotics and good painkillers and it was quite a journey from Budapest to Sussex. And we had to be careful not to leave an easy traceable trail.” Victor answered.

 

“I understand. So let’s see what we can do. I will need some help.”

 

“Sure.” With that Victor followed John back to the bedroom.

 

 

 

Sherlock was dozing; the morphine was giving him a well needed break from the pain.  John hesitated. For a moment he thought about giving Sherlock some more time without pain, but the doctor knew that treating the wounds as fast as possible was important.  He definitely needed to assess the infection and clean those wounds. Victor walked up to the bed and with a gentle touch he woke Sherlock. “Will, John will treat your wounds now. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded and watched John coming closer.

 

“Mary and Anthea are getting some more supplies, but I will start with cleaning the infected wounds. We will later stabilize the broken bones. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded again. He didn’t trust his voice.

 

“I cannot give you more morphine right now, but I would guess what I have given you so far will not be enough to make this painless.” John added.

 

“It’s okay. I can handle pain. I am used to it.” Sherlock stated plainly without a second thought.

 

John couldn’t suppress a shuddered that ran through his body as he heard these words spoken like it was the most normal thing to say. The words reminded him of a soldier he had treated back in Afghanistan. He had been in the hands of the Taliban for two weeks before he was rescued. But Sherlock had been missing for three months. John didn’t want to think about how much pain Sherlock went through in those months to find pain could be something one could get used to. John stopped that line of thought. He needed to work professionally.

 

Sherlock sensed John’s thoughts. “It is okay.” He said with a soft voice.

 

John took a moment to look at his friend and he shook his head. “No, Sherlock, it isn’t. And it is not okay that you feel the need to comfort me as it should be the other way round.” John said, looking his friend in the eyes. They both felt uncomfortable and silence filled the room before John continued. “Okay, let’s get going. We can pause whenever you need it. Just say that you need a break. Don’t hold back.”

Sherlock nodded.

 

John set an IV line first before he started with the right wrist, carefully removing the bandage. He gasped a bit as he saw the deep wounds, the skin abrased all over and much deeper than he had expected. He wasn’t sure if those would heal properly without a skin graft. Nevertheless, he started to carefully clean the wounds, watching every little flinch of pain, every quite hiss of his patient. He smiled a bit. It was so much like Sherlock always used to be when he had patched him up in the past. No real complaints about the pain, just subtle movements and noises. John worked in silence and Sherlock didn’t feel the need to talk either, but he watched John unless the pain became too intense and he needed to close his eyes. Only when John started to work on the left wrist Sherlock eventually asked for a break.

 

 

In the end Sherlock needed several breaks in-between in order to let the pain ebb away before he let John continue. And John had to admit that he needed those breaks as well. With each bandage he removed he saw a new horror. The back was a mess. While some wounds were nearly healed others were badly infected. Seeing those wounds and different stage of healing confirmed John’s assumption that Sherlock had been abused over a longer period of time. John really wanted to know who had done this to his friend, but he didn’t dare to ask as he didn’t want to add to Sherlock’s distress. In addition, the malnourishment was worse than expected. Sherlock was skin and bones and needed a high calorie intake to gain some weight and some strength. In one of the breaks John sent Mary a message adding high calorie drinks as well as oxygen to the list.

 

After a few hours Anthea and Mary returned with the much needed supplies. John was able to place a removable splint underneath Sherlock’s left arm, stabilizing the broken bone. He improvised a bit with the broken foot, but it was okay for the moment. An operation would have been the best, both for the arm and the foot, but as that wasn’t possible John did the best he could. God, John wished he would be able to get Sherlock into a hospital, but Mycroft and Victor had both made it quite clear in one of their breaks that it would be too dangerous.

 

Finally every wound was treated. John was exhausted, but of course Sherlock was absolutely wrecked. John attached the nasal cannula to Sherlock’s nose to give him more oxygen and he gave him another small dose of morphine.

 

“You should try to sleep now.”John said, but Sherlock was already drifting off. John carefully brushed over his friend’s cheekbone. Then he got up and walked away.

 

 

Back in the living room John looked at Mycroft, Anthea and Mary.  He waited until Victor had joined him.

“I want answers. Now.” John demanded.

 

 


	16. A necessary decision

 

John was angry, no doubt about that. Both Mycroft and Victor looked fairly uncomfortable with John’s demand and just stayed silent.

 

“I want answers and one of you is going to give them to me. What has happened to him?” John said, his voice quiet but steely.

 

Mycroft glanced to Victor who looked back and merely shook his head a bit and waved his hand in a way that clearly indicated that answering John’s questions was Mycroft job. Mycroft took a deep breath. “When Sherlock killed Magnussen, even though most of my colleagues were happy to get rid of Magnussen, they were not willing to let Sherlock get away with it.” Mycroft started.

 

“I know that.” John growled through gritted teeth. “It was prison or the mission in Eastern Europe. You explained all that to me already. I want to know what happened to him there.”

 

Mycroft looked lost, like he couldn’t say those words.

 

“He was tortured.” Victor said and before John could intervene he added. “The network he had to infiltrate was run by someone called Anton Baracnik, but that isn’t his real name. His real name is Sherrinford Holmes and he is Sherlock’s twin brother, but neither he nor Mycroft knew that Ford was Baracnik.”

 

“Anton Baracnik is Sherlock’s twin brother?” Mary intervened.

 

“Yes, non-identical twin.” Mycroft added.

 

John started to pace up and down the room. “Why would his twin brother torture him?” He stopped and looked at Mycroft for an answer.

 

“Ford is.” Mycroft stopped, unsure how to describe his brother.

 

“A psychopath. Crazy, unpredictable, cruel. Think of Moriarty, but much more vicious than him.” Victor helped Mycroft out.

 

“And he hates Sherlock and me.” Mycroft tried to explain. “It is a long story but he believes we forced him to leave England back then when both he and Sherlock were still students.”

 

John started pacing again. “So you.” He looked at Mycroft. “You send him there not knowing that he would meet his brother who is crazy and hates him.” Mycroft just nodded and the guilt was written all over his face, clearly visible for everyone to see. John turned to Victor. “And you said he was tortured and from what I have seen I came to the same conclusion. And I would guess that it wasn’t a onetime thing, but done repeatedly. Was it his brother?” John’s voice was full of hate.

 

“Among others.” Victor said as calm as possible.

 

“Among others?” John asked.

 

Victor didn’t want to tell John the details but he sensed that John wouldn’t stop until he got a satisfying answer. “Sherrinford had several criminal endeavors. Among others he was big in human trafficking, mostly for prostitution, but he also needed humans for another kind of business.” Victor paused. “As so called material for people who want to torture humans for fun.”

 

John gasped and stared at Victor. He needed a moment to understand what he had just heard. “You mean he, Sherlock, God, no.”

 

Victor nodded. “He had been there nearly three months when I found him.”

 

“No, no, no.” John said repeatedly as he started to pace again until he stopped abruptly. “Is he dead? Sherrinford?”

 

“We have no idea where he is.” Mycroft said.

 

While Mycroft and Victor explained to John that they thought that Sherrinford would search for Sherlock to finish what he had begun, Mary slowly walked up and down, swaying slightly while softly pressing kisses to her daughter’s head. Her head swirled with the information she had just heard. She watched John who was so agitated. Her daughter stirred in her arms clearly noticing her father’s angry voice even when asleep. So while everybody in the room started to discuss how to proceed in order to capture Sherrinford Mary just walked out of the living room and into Sherlock’s bedroom. She had only glanced at him before, seen some of his injuries when she came back with the supplies. She walked up to his bed and carefully sat down on the chair beside the bed. His eyes were closed and he looked relaxed but also emaciated. She assumed that he was asleep, exhausted by the treatment of his multiple injuries, but he proved her wrong.

 

“Hi Mary.” He whispered as he opened his eyes.

 

“Hi Sherlock.” Mary answered and smiled.

 

“They are discussing me, right?” Sherlock asked, coughing a bit.

 

Mary just nodded as an answer. “I wanted to show you your goddaughter.”

 

Sherlock looked at her, his eyes going wide. His glance shifted from her to the baby and back.

 

“This is Willa.” Mary explained, laying her daughter on the bed beside Sherlock. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that it was only because of her that he had to endure so much, had to suffer so much. But she knew he wouldn’t like that sort of sentiment.

 

“She is beautiful.” He said. “I see more of you, but there are also bits and pieces of John.”

 

“Yeah.” She said and while she watched him marvel at the baby she realized what she had to do. It was her first thought when she had listened to Mycroft’s and Victor’s explanations. Of course she had heard of Anton Baracnik before. He was dangerous, everybody knew that. The idea that he was Sherlock’s brother and that had tortured his own brother was horrible but from everything she had heard about him not that surprising. And just the thought that he might search for Sherlock in order to finish what he had began made her shudder. She knew that neither John nor Sherlock would let her do what she wanted to do, but she already had a plan formed in her mind. She definitely knew it was something she had to do, the only way to repay her debt to the man who had sacrificed his own life to protect her, her daughter and the man she loved. Her hand moved to the nightstand. John had placed a number of prepared syringes on it, some with morphine, but also some with a sedative. She took one of the latter ones and was about to inject it in his IV line. Sherlock was still absorbed with looking at Willa so he didn’t notice.

 

“You need to take good care of her.” She said, unable to keep the sadness out of her voice. She bowed down and kissed her sleeping daughter while she slowly pressed the plunger of the syringes.

 

“Mary, what do you want to do?” Sherlock asked, his voice already slurred by the sedating medication.

 

“What is right, to repay my debt.” She answered, kissing his forehead as she emptied the rest of the sedative into the IV line.

 

Sherlock wanted to say something, call for John, but the medicine was pulling him under. Everything turned dark.

 

She watched as Sherlock drifted off and left the room.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, wake up.” He heard John.

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, trying to open his eyes.

 

“Yes, it is me. What has happened? Why is Willa with you? Where is Mary?” John asked desperately.

 

Sherlock needed a moment to open his eyes and to remember what had happened. He saw that John was right beside his bed, holding Willa close. Mycroft and Victor were standing at the other side of the bed while Anthea was waiting in the door frame.

 

“She is gone?” Sherlock asked although he knew that she was.

 

“Yes.” John started. “We were talking in the living room. She went out and I thought she was with you, but when I came in only Willa was by your side.”

 

“She sedated me.” Sherlock explained. “Wanted me out, so that I couldn’t alarm you.” John looked at him confused. “I think she wants to go after Sherrinford.” Sherlock continued. “She asked me to take care of Willa and the way she said it indicated that she contemplated the possibility of not being able to return. She said she wants to do what is right, to repay her debt.” Sherlock could see the panic in John’s face when he heard Victor’s voice.

 

“Well if anybody could get him, it’s her.”

 

Now John turned from Sherlock to Victor. “What do you mean?” John yelled in a way that made Willa cry.

 

“Uhhmm, sorry.” Victor mumbled. “I was under the impression that you know what your wife did for a living in her past life.”

 

John tried to calm Willa and so he whispered the next words. “I knew that she once worked for the CIA and that she was an assassin.”

 

But before John could finish, Victor interrupted amused. “An assassin? Is that what she told you?”

 

John just looked at him with a terrifying glare that made Victor explain a bit more. “She wasn’t an assassin. Yes, there might have been situation that needed that kind of solution and she is indeed a crack shot. But first and foremost she was a single operative agent, someone who would infiltrate enemy organizations single-handed without a safety net and take them out if necessary, but mostly she captured people that could deliver useful information.”

 

John stared at Victor for a moment, still trying to calm down is crying daughter. “I need some air.” And with that John went out, leaving Mycroft, Victor and Sherlock staring at each other.

 

Mycroft mumbled something about needing to go back to work and went out taking Anthea with him. Sherlock and Victor were left by themselves. Victor moved up to the bed sit down beside Sherlock.

 

“Are you okay?” Victor asked while gently wiping some stray curls from Sherlock’s forehead.

 

“What do you think? The wife of my best friends feels the need to go after my crazy psychopathic brother.” Sherlock said.

 

Victor nodded. “I know. But I also know that she is good, I mean, really good.” Victor crawled over to the other side of the bed to lie beside Sherlock. They both didn’t speak and Victor just watched Sherlock until he felt asleep.

 

 


	17. Worse

Sherlock didn’t know how long he had slept, but he woke up with John by his side watching him.

 

“Hey.” John said. “You are awake. How is the pain?”

 

“Bearable.” Sherlock answered with a raspy voice. He tried to sit up but failed miserably. And he couldn’t hide the pain it caused.

 

“Hey, easy. Let me help you.” John said and carefully tugged him into a slight sitting position. ”I will up the dose in a moment, because I need to take a look and probably clean at least the worst wounds.”

 

“Okay.” Sherlock said and for a moment both man just looked at each other. Sherlock saw it in John’s face and in the way he sat there. He was uneasy. “They told you.” Sherlock stated plainly.

 

“What?” John said and looked away.

 

“Mycroft and Victor told you what has happened to me.” Sherlock said and added after a pause. “You could have asked me.”

 

John looked at his friend again. “Yes, I could have, but I didn’t want to distress you.”

 

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. John was right, he probably would not have been able to speak it out without panicking.

 

“Shall we start?” John asked. “When you need a pause in-between just tell me, okay?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock said, a bit relieved that John didn’t want to talk about what has happened.

 

 

* * *

The next days were filled with tension. No one talked about Mary and about her dangerous mission. Mycroft soon left Sussex. He claimed that he needed to be in London so that nobody became suspicious and he needed to look for the moles. It was only half of the truth. He also wanted to get away from Sherlock as he couldn’t bear to see his brother in his fragile state knowing it was his fault. He only stayed with Sherlock alone when his brother was asleep. Then he watched him, happy to see him alive, but also filled with guilt and remorse. Every time Sherlock woke up Mycroft soon found a reason to slip out of the room and he only came back when John or Victor were in the room. Mycroft wasn’t quite sure if Sherlock had noticed this pattern in his drugged state. If he noticed it he didn’t mention it. In the end Mycroft was relieved to leave the cottage with the plausible excuse of the work that had to be done.

 

John and Victor stayed to look after Sherlock, whose condition didn’t improve. Quite the opposite, the cough and the fever got worse and the skin infections were also not getting any better. John changed the antibiotics but without a real success. In addition, John couldn’t really bring Sherlock to drink enough of the high calories drinks. He was just too weak, barely conscious most of the time. After three more days Sherlock was not lucid anymore. The fever wrecked his body. His lips started to show a slight blue tinge despite the extra oxygen. John was sitting by Sherlock’s bed, trying to cool him down a bit with some ice packs as the fever had spiked once more. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Victor was standing in the door frame.

 

“He needs a hospital. Now.” John said quietly but with determination.

 

“Yes.” Victor answered plainly. “I will call Mycroft.”

 

A few minutes later Victor returned and handed John his phone before he sat down on the other side of the bed. “Explain it to him.”

 

John grabbed the phone and started talking before Mycroft got a chance to say a word. “He needs a hospital. And don’t even start with that it is too dangerous for him. I know it is. But the fact is, that his fever is too high, the antibiotics don’t work, his lung is barely working. He is getting cyanotic. We need a hospital lab for testing what exactly triggers the infection. And more than anything else we need to put him on ventilation.”

 

“John, there must be a way to do that without leaving the safety of the cottage.” Mycroft said.

 

“No.” John intervened. “You don’t get it. I need an intensive care unit. And I need enough staff to react to the things that will surely happen. He will crash and I will not be able to handle that alone in a cottage in Sussex with improvised equipment. Victor is a great help caring for those wounds, but this situation is nothing we can handle here.” As Sherlock stirred in his bed, clearly recognizing John’s anger even in his hazy state, John stood up and walked to the hallway.

 

“But we haven’t identified if there are more moles then the two people we found so far.” Mycroft said agitated.

 

“Mycroft, stop it. It is very simple. If we keep Sherlock here, he will die. His chances to survive are not good at all, regardless, but if we don’t get him on intensive care soon he will die for sure. Do you get that?” John yelled.

There was silence on the other side of the line.

 

“I will send a helicopter. Get him ready.” Mycroft said and John couldn’t answer as Mycroft hung up.

 

 

They didn’t have to wait long and heard a helicopter approaching, landing on the neighboring meadow. While Victor was walking out to meet the crew of what was clearly an emergency helicopter a second one approached. It was Mycroft’s small black helicopter.

 

While John talked to the doctor who came with the emergency helicopter Mycroft made his way to the bed where his brother was lying.  Mycroft carefully sat down on the mattress. He let his hand stroke over Sherlock’s forehead, eliciting a shiver despite the fever. Mycroft wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what he could possible say. He looked at his brother who really looked much worse than the last time he saw him, even thinner, his skin had an unhealthy greyish-blue tone. The bruises had started to fade, but were still visible.

“I am so sorry, Sherlock.” Mycroft whispered even though he was not quite sure that Sherlock would hear him in his current state. A noise behind him interrupted Mycroft’s musings. The helicopter crew had brought in a stretcher so Mycroft got up and let them work. The quite whimper, that escaped Sherlock’s mouth when the lifted him onto the stretcher, forced Mycroft to close his eyes.

 

“Victor, you gonna ride with them in case Sherlock’s panics. You are best in calming him down.” John commandeered. “Mycroft gonna take me and Willa with his helicopter. The doctor knows what to do, so let them do their work.”

 

Victor and Mycroft nodded. A few minutes later Sherlock was on his way to a military hospital west of London with Victor by his side. Once in the hospital Sherlock was rushed to the intensive care unit, he was sedated and placed on a ventilator. All of the time Victor stayed by his side, always close, always carefully watching the actions of the doctors and nurses and keeping an eye on the surroundings, his hand lingering close to his gun. His tension eased a bit once John and Mycroft arrived and John handed him Willa to look after while he was talking to the doctors and looked after Sherlock.

 

 

 


	18. Revelations

 

The next days were horrible. Despite all the efforts of the doctors and nurses Sherlock’s condition seemed to deteriorate further. He was simply too weak to fight of the various infections and was on the verge of a septic shock. Victor was forced to watch helplessly from the sideline while John discussed treatment options with the other doctors. Mycroft stayed for a while but it was clear that he couldn’t stand watching his brother in that state. Sherlock didn’t realize any of that as they had put him under sedation, an artificial coma that should give him the rest that he needed to heal.

 

It was late in the evening of their second day in hospital; John had just put Willa to sleep in the room next to Sherlock’s. As he watched is little girl sleeping peacefully his mind was racings with scenarios of Mary’s dead. While he was busy looking after Sherlock he could keep those thoughts away, but in those quite moments with his daughter they came back with a vengeance. It had been so hard for him to forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock and when they both had thought that he had died on the mission it had nearly tore them apart. But there was Willa and John had to admit that Mary was a loving and wonderful mother. And now she just went away and maybe she would never come back. How could she just walk away to pursue this monster? He thought about Sherlock’s injuries and his mind came up with vivid images of what Sherrinford would do to Mary. John panicked and he knew that he had to stop that kind of thoughts. He took a deep breath, gently caressing his daughter’s blonde head before he turned on the baby alarm and left the room. When he entered Sherlock’s room he saw Victor who held Sherlock’s hand and was absently stroking his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. John sat down on the chair in the corner and for the first time John really watched the other man.

 

“So, how did you two meet?” John asked after a while.

 

Victor turned around for a moment. “He had never talked about me, right?” As John nodded Victor smiled, but John could see the sadness shimmering through the small smile.

 

Of course, Sherlock would never talk about their relationship, Victor thought and turned back to watch Sherlock.

“I met him and his brother Sherrinford in Cambridge. Will studied chemistry, his brother economics and I studied informatics.”

 

“You call him Will. I thought he hated his first name.” John said.

 

“He does hate it, but it was a kind of running gag between us. When I met Will, well, let’s say when my dog met Will. I had a small terrier and he bit him. He told me that his name was William and tried to discourage me from helping him. He thought I wouldn’t find him with that name, but I did and I stuck to that name. He eventually accepted it, but I was always the only person allowed to call him by his first name.”

 

John chuckled as he could vividly imagine how Sherlock reacted with a frown to someone calling him William.

 

“After the incident with the dog he couldn’t walk for about a week and naturally I felt responsible and so I took care of him. We found out that we had some mutual interest, like the violin and science. And I just fell in love with him in this very first week. I mean he is brilliant and he can be quite funny as well, even though not everybody understands his kind of humor.” Victor smiled at those memories.

 

“So you were a couple?” John asked cautiously. The way Victor touched and cared for Sherlock were quite obvious, but he wanted to ask anyway.

 

“Yes. We were in love. William can also be quite romantic if he wants to.” Victor said his thoughts deep in the past.

 

“So what happened?” John asked.

 

“A lot. First of all, Sherrinford was kind of jealous. He had plans, criminal plans and he wanted Will to be a part of them. They always had a very strange kind of relationship. I mean, yes they are twins, but only fraternal. They have some similarities in their looks, but not so much. It is quite difficult to explain, but Sherrinford had a weird kind of control over his brother. I mean Will can be really stubborn and arrogant, but he behaved so different when his brother was around, strangely subdued. It took me quite a while to figure out that he was dangerous and unpredictable.” Victor took a deep breath. “It was when Sherrinford tried to pressure him by threatening me that William asked Mycroft for help. It ended with Sherrinford fleeing from England. Only then Will told me what his brother has done since they were children and believe me, it wasn’t nice.” Victor paused for a moment. “We moved together back then and the following three years were the best of my life.”

 

“And what happened that you two split up?” John asked.

 

“We didn’t split up. He threw me out.” Victor said and he sounded poignant as he recalled the events. “But it was my fault.” Biting his lower lip he paused a moment. “When we both graduated Will had plans, plans that included both of us. He wanted us both to become private detectives, but I thought that that was just a joke and we had never seriously talked about it. And then Mycroft offered me a job at the MI6 and I took it without talking about the offer with Will. Naturally, he saw it as a betrayal. He thought that Mycroft had only offered me the job to control him. At that time I thought that Will was paranoid and I was angry because the way he said it, it sounded like he thought I would not be qualified for the job. Well, one word led to the next and in the end he broke up with me and literally threw me out.”

 

John nodded. “That explains why he has this strained relationship with Mycroft.”

 

“Well, that was only one more thing to add to the strain. His whole family was always manipulated by Sherrinford in thinking that Sherlock was the one with the mental problems and it was only back at university that Mycroft discovered what Sherrinford really was about.”

 

John thought about the rare conversations he had with Sherlock about his family and how he had never mentioned his twin brother. Even back when he had spent the Christmas, that changed everything, with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes he hadn’t seen many family pictures and he couldn’t remember a single picture that showed a third Holmes brother, but he hadn’t really looked for them either.

“So you haven’t seen each other since he threw you out?” John asked after a pause.

 

“Well, I tried to win him back a couple of years later. It was when I discovered that he was right, that Mycroft had hired me in order to get Will to join the MI6 as well. I quit and tried to get William back, but at that time he was just in a vicious cycle of drugs and rehab and he didn’t want anything to do with me. I respected that. I started working freelance, which by the way, is how I met and know your wife.”

 

John felt a lump in his throat. He tried to avoid thinking about Mary. He would only worry and here was a man he knew something about Mary’s past.

 

“I am sorry.” Victor said quietly.

 

“Don’t be.” John replied.

 

“I know it is probably not what you want to hear, but I think you underestimate her.” Victor said.

 

John snorted. “She just left, without a word.”

 

“She felt she needed to do this.” Victor said softly.

 

“Yes, I know, but.” John said, his voice broke. He took another deep breath. “Can we stop talking about her?”

 

“Sure. I understand.” Victor answered.

 

Both men didn’t say a word for while, both deep in thought.

 

“So how come you were looking for him when we all believed he was dead?” John asked as he desperately wanted to stop thinking about Mary and her whereabouts.

 

Victor turned around again to face John. For a moment it seemed that he didn’t want to answer the question, but then he explained. “First of all, I always looked out for him. He is the love of my live and even if he decided that he didn’t want me in his life any more I still felt the need to be there for him. I mean I caused him so much pain and I needed to keep him safe, even if it was only from afar. So I tried to keep track of what he did. I was glad when he got clean and started working for Scotland Yard. And I must admit I was jealous when you moved in.”

 

“No reason.” John interrupted.

 

Victor just looked at him like he wanted to asked a question, but he didn’t. Instead he turned around again and looked at Sherlock. “During the two years when he chased down Moriarty’s associates I tried to keep an eye on him, but it was hard and most of the times he was able to be s deep undercover that even I couldn’t find him. But a couple of times I was able to provide him with clues, not directly of course, he had no idea the hints came from me. When he came back and you two started doing cases together again I relaxed a bit and I didn’t watch out for him so closely anymore.  I mean I know he was shot.” Victor looked around again. “On the way from Budapest to England he told me the story, so yes, I know that it was Mary. Anyway, when I found out what happened with Magnussen and that he was sent to Eastern Europe I was shocked. It took me a while to find out what he was suppose to do there and  that was an even greater shock because I knew that the network he was suppose to infiltrate was run by Sherrinford. I wanted to warn Mycroft but when I contacted him he send me a mail telling me that Will had died. I went to the funeral and I talked to Mycroft afterwards. The things he told me didn’t fit together. He didn’t know that Sherrinford was behind that network. And I just had the strange gut feeling that things were not like they seemed to be. So I did some research and found him.” Victor explained.

 

“I am really glad you did.” John said with a warm smile.

 

After another long stretch of silence Victor spoke again. “John?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Please don’t tell him.”

 

“Don’t tell him what?”

 

“Don’t tell him that I said that he is the love of my life.” Victor said and he sounded small und vulnerable.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t want to put him under any kind of pressure. When he survives this he should decide what he wants. I don’t want him to feel obliged in any form.”

 

John looked at Victor and felt sorry for the other man but also understood the notion. “Okay, but I think you should tell him, maybe not immediately, but you should tell him.”

 

Victor bit his lower lip again and nodded. “Maybe.”

 

John looked at the other man and he could see the tears that Victor tried to hold back.

“You know, when we first met I asked him if he had a girlfriend. He said that that wasn’t his area.” John chuckled as he remembered that awkward conversation and Victor smiled. “So I asked him if he had a boyfriend. I guess he thought I was about to chat him up, but I was just curious. I mean I was about to move in as his flatmate and I just wanted to know. Anyway it ended with him telling me that he was flattered by my interest but that he was married to his work.”

 

Victor had turned around to watch John, so John continued. “And in all those years that I have known him I am sure that he loved his work, but I am also quite sure that he was lonely and that he longed for someone. He might have never said it, but I could see it, especially after he came back from the dead.”

 

Victor gazed at John for a moment before he turned his watch Sherlock again. He was looking so pale and sick, lying motionless in that damned hospital bed, a machine breathing for him.  The idea of talking to Sherlock about love seemed so far from possible that Victor forced himself to disregard those thoughts.

 

The men sat in silence and both watched Sherlock.

  


	19. Captured

Progress was slow, but the antibiotics and the artificial coma started to show effects.

 

Sherlock woke up slowly. Breathing felt strangely restricted. Waterboarding or strangulations were his first thoughts and he instantly panicked. As he couldn’t feel any restraints he tried to get away. Pain was shooting through every fiber of his body as he felt hands on his shoulders pushing him down. He panicked and instinctively wanted to break away, but he just couldn’t manage.

 

“Will, calm down. You are safe.” Victor’s voice.

 

“Sherlock, don’t struggle. That is just a tube to help you to breathe. Please.” John. Why was John here? For a moment Sherlock thought he was going mad, but then his sight became clearer and he saw John and Victor. His brain slowly provided the needed information. Victor saved him, John has tended his injuries. Slowly he calmed down and closed his eyes again.

 

“Sherlock, are you with us?” John asked and Sherlock nodded slightly and opened his eyes again to see a very worried John. “Good. You are in a hospital. You have been in a medical induced coma for about a week. Okay?” Sherlock nodded again his eyes wandering to the ventilator. “Are you in pain?” Sherlock nodded slightly. “Okay.” John said and raised the morphine dose. Sherlock tried to get with his hands to tube, but John stopped him “We needed to ventilate you and we cannot just stop that. I know it is unpleasant, but we need to wean you from the ventilation before we can pull the tube. It will take probably some time. Okay?” Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes. He heard John talking to Victor telling him that he would get the doctors.

 

“Will, are you still awake?” Victor said to him, his fingertips gently touching Sherlock’s hand.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded. He saw how Victor smiled while he felt his hand gently comb through his hair. It felt oddly soothing.

 

“You made us worry.” Victor said and Sherlock saw the sadness in his eyes and it made him wonder. “For a few days it looked really bad.”

 

Sherlock just looked a Victor and tried to grab his hand which made Victor smile again and squeeze his hand just a little bit. The next second a horde of doctors and nurse came in the room and Sherlock had to endure their touches and talking. When they left he was exhausted and glad to see Victor and John at his side before he drifted off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days were not easy, but as Sherlock wasn’t breathing on his own yet, they needed those days to slowly wean him from the mechanical ventilation. Every time he woke up he panicked but either John or Victor were always there to calm him down. When the doctor’s were finally able to pull the endotracheal tube John was happy, but also beyond exhausted. He left the room and let Victor and the doctors talk to Sherlock. John just needed a moment alone with his daughter. Mycroft has organized a trustworthy nanny to look after the little girl, but right now John wanted nothing but hold her. With Sherlock’s condition slowly on the mend Mary crept into his thought more and more. She hadn’t tried to get in contact. She had left her phone in the cottage but she also didn’t try to contact him in any other way. There was no news of Sherrinford or Mary. Even Mycroft resources couldn’t locate them. In addition, Mycroft was still trying to work out if there were more than the two moles working for Sherrinford that he had already found. They were interrogated but while they were willing to spill the beans about Sherrinford’s business ventures, his headquarter in Hungary and some of his other bolt holes; they didn’t know where Sherrinford was at the moment. John looked at the little girl in his arms and he saw Mary, in her eyes, her hair and in her nose. He felt his chest tighten at the thought that his daughter might already had lost her mother. He took a deep breath and walked back to Sherlock’s room. Through the window he could see that his best friend was sleeping again and that Victor sat beside him, holding his hand. At least Sherlock was on the mend, John thought and softly kissed his daughter’s golden curls.

 

 

* * *

 

It was the tenth day in hospital. Sherlock was awake, breathing on his own and he was finally lucid, but also sleeping most of the time. He was still on heavy pain medication and of course complained about the morphine muddling with his brain. His pneumonia was far from healed and every now and then rattling coughs shook Sherlock’s still too frail body.

 

They were all watching Willa who was crawling on the second bed in the room, the side rails preventing her from falling down, but John stayed close anyway.

 

“Did you know, John, that crawling is an important developmental milestone for children, but that some children skip crawling and go directly to walking.” Sherlock lectured with a raspy voice.

 

“I am a doctor, Sherlock. Of course I know something like that.” John replied with an amused smile. He just wanted to show off his knowledge when Mycroft stepped into the room with an expression on his face that was clearly indicating that he had important news.

 

“Mary got him.” Mycroft announced without a greeting afore.

 

“Is she okay?” John asked hastily.

 

“Yes, not a scratch.” Mycroft answered looking at John before turning his eyes to Sherlock again whose breathing had started to accelerate. “That cannot be said for Ford. It seems one shouldn’t incur Mary Watson’s wrath. He is alive, but he surely will remember this day for quite some time.” Mycroft saw the shock in Sherlock’s face, but he also saw fear. “He is in a secure and secret location. He will not get away.”

 

Sherlock nodded. He couldn’t quite process what he had just heard. Ford was in custody, captured by Mary, hurt by Mary. His accelerated breathing caused a cough that made him double over in pain.

 

“Will, you need to calm down. It is over.” Sherlock heard Victor’s soothing voice while the other man held him up, supporting him while his body was shook by the coughing. When Sherlock looked up and saw the concern in Victor’s face. Sherlock gaze wandered to his brother who looked also worried.

 

“I am fine. I just need a moment.” Sherlock croaked as Victor helped him to lay back and he didn’t object when Victor placed oxygen masked over his mouth.

 

“Where is my wife?” John asked staring at Mycroft.

 

“Mary is on the way. She will be here soon.” Mycroft said. He turned to look at John and then turned to Victor. “Could you give me some time with my brother alone?”

 

“Sure.” Victor said and walked away. John followed with Willa in his arms.

 

Mycroft sat down beside Sherlock. “You don’t have to fear that he can get away. We have implanted more than one GPS tracker into him in a way that there is no easy way to get rid of them. Besides he will not be able to walk any time soon. Mary had cut both his Achilles tendons. And from what Mary has found out there were only the two moles, not more. You are safe.” Mycroft explained.

 

Sherlock just nodded. He was exhausted.

 

“Mary said that she thought about killing him, but that she decided that it should be your decision.” Mycroft said softly placing a hand on his brother’s arm. “I agree.”

 

Sherlock watched his brother with an intense gaze. He should decide if his brother should die. How could he?

 

“You don’t have to decide now. As I said he cannot get away.” Mycroft said, sensing Sherlock’s internal dilemma.

 

Sherlock wanted to take the oxygen mask away but didn’t manage until Mycroft helped him. “You would kill him if I asked you to do it?” Sherlock asked with a very quiet voice.

 

“Yes.” Mycroft said sternly.

 

“No.” Sherlock said hastily, coughing again, closing his eyes and waiting for the pain to subside.

 

“No?” Mycroft asked confused holding the oxygen mask over Sherlock’s mouth and nose.

 

There were minutes of silence while Sherlock tried to breathe calmly. Then he started to explain. “You know. He came there once. They said I would have a special client and then it was him. He wanted to have some fun with me.” Sherlock shuddered involuntarily as the memories of that day flashed through his mind. For a moment he was back there but then he felt how Mycroft grabbed his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He looked up. “Most of the whip marks are from him. In-between he showed me a newspaper with an article about my funeral. He said nobody would look for me as everybody thought me to be dead.” Mycroft squeezed Sherlock’s hand a bit more. He wanted to say that he was sorry and the thought of the videos flickered through his mind. But before he could say anything Sherlock continued. “When he was finished I asked him to kill me, I begged him to kill me. He didn’t. He wanted me to suffer more, said he would sell me to the more vicious clients and that he might come back as well.” Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to get rid of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

 

Mycroft watched his brother struggling with obviously painful memories. He wanted to say something to soothe him, but he wasn’t good at this and just didn’t know what to say.

 

“You see.” Sherlock continued weakly. “You can’t kill him. Killing him would be a mercy. He hasn’t deserved mercy.”

 

Mycroft just nodded. Thinking about it he had to agree. Ending Ford’s life would show mercy, keeping him a controlled environment without any contact to the outside world would be a real punishment.

 

“You are right.” Mycroft said. “I will do whatever you decide. Just let me know. If you ever change your mind, just tell me.”Mycroft placed the oxygen mask on Sherlock’s face. “You should rest.”

 

Sherlock watched how his brother got up and went out. For a moment Sherlock watched the closed door. Surely John and Victor would be coming back shortly. He needed time to think, to process what had happened, but he was also so exhausted and soon felt how he drifted off.

 

 


	20. An unexpected visitor

When Sherlock woke up again it was already dark outside and only his bedside lamp gave the room a soft yellow glow. Sherlock had expected Victor to be by his side as John would surely be reunited with Mary. But Victor wasn’t there instead he saw Mary sitting beside his bed watching him, smiling.

 

“Awake?” She asked softly.

 

Sherlock took the mask away. “More or less.” He answered his voice rough from sleep.

 

“John told me what has happened. I am glad you are getting better.” Mary looked at him and Sherlock could see that she was genuinely worried.

 

“I am glad you are back. We all were worried. How could you just go out alone? That was crazy. He could have killed you.” Sherlock said angrily causing him a coughing fit. It lasted for minutes and sent waves of pain through his ribcage. Mary had moved closer and carefully held him. When the coughing finally subsided Sherlock was exhausted and he sank back into the pillows.

 

Mary handed him a glass of water.  “He didn’t.” Mary said and as he saw Sherlock’s confusion she added. “He didn’t kill me. I knew what I was doing and the circumstances were on my side. He expected the army of your brother’s agents not a single woman coming after him. And he had absolutely no idea who I was. He even tried to chat me up.” Mary said with an amused tone in her voice.

 

“Mycroft told me you had no scratch, but that Ford would remember your meeting.” Sherlock whispered as he tried to keep his breathing calm.

 

“Well, let’s say I roughed him up a little bit, let him get a taste of his own medicine.” Mary explained with a wicked smile that let Sherlock shudder. “And I needed to make sure that he couldn’t escape.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but gaze at her, at this woman that was a loving mother, who had a great sense of humor and who worked as a nurse. Of course he knew of her past. He had been of the wrong side of her gun once. He had read her files and further information he had received from Mycroft. He knew she was good, but he had to admit that he still might have underestimated her.

 

“And I thought I gave you a precise instruction.” She said sternly.

 

Sherlock frowned.

 

“To take care of John and my little girl.” She added with a witty smile.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help it and smiled as well. “I wasn’t on top of my game.” He started coughing again, but not as bad as before.

 

“I know.” She looked at him with something in her eyes that Sherlock could only interpret as love.

 

They sat in silence for a while just looking at each other before Sherlock asked a question that was on his mind since Mycroft had told him what Mary had done.

 

“Does he know that you, that we.” God, why was it so difficult to say that he wanted to know if Ford knew that she had captured him for me, Sherlock thought.

 

“Of course, I told him while we were waiting for Mycroft’s men to arrive. He was getting closer by the way. I caught him in Dover. As I said he had no idea who I was. He was furious that you were rescued and he had followed you and Victor, had found out that you both had been on a Ferry from Calais to Dover. But he had lost your trail in Dover. And he was alone, kind of strange for someone who always surrounded himself with stupid minions. Anyway, when I got him I made sure he couldn’t run away, then I called Mycroft and as we waited I told and showed him that hurting you has been his biggest mistake.”

 

Sherlock stared at her. “And did he asked?”

 

“About our connection?” Mary finished his question. “Yes. I told him I shot you once and that that was my biggest mistake and that catching him was my redemption and that I consider myself a friend of yours.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “I can imagine that he had problems with the concept of friends.”

 

“Yeah, sort of.” She smiled and shook her head slightly. “Well, I told him that you are the proof that if one has a few true friends that it could be quite helpful.”

 

Sherlock nodded and smiled as well. Yes, without his friends he wouldn’t be alive. Victor had found and rescued him, John had looked after his injuries and saved his life and Mary had captured Ford. He took a deep breath which turned out to be a mistake as he had to cough again. Mary held him again and when the coughing ended she carefully placed the oxygen mask over his mouth again.

 

“You should rest. I’ll better leave. I will get in trouble if I didn’t let you rest. Your doctor can be really quite bossy.” Mary stood up. “He had made it quite clear that you shouldn’t be stressed.” With those words she was about to leave the room.

 

“Mary?”

 

She turned around.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You are welcomed. As I said I consider you my friend. And you only got into that situation because of me, of my mistakes in the past.” She looked a bit sad as she said that. “You nearly died because I panicked in Magnussen’s office and yet you risked your own life to save me and my daughter. I will never be able to repay my debt to you, but this, making sure you are safe from the psychopathic bastard is one step.”

 

“Mary.” Sherlock croaked through the oxygen mask.

 

“No, Sherlock, don’t say it.” She stopped him. “You don’t need to say anything. As I have told him I consider myself a friend of yours and I know you do it too and that is it. Friends protect people.”

 

Sherlock wanted to say something but she already left the room. Friends protect people, he thought. John’s word, so true.

 

 


	21. Resurrection

Mycroft felt a strange unease when he drove up the crooked driveway that led to his parent’s cottage. Since Ford was captured and Sherlock was getting better every day, they had decided that it would be time to tell their parents and his friends that Sherlock was alive. Mycroft had offered to play the messenger to their parents since he had also been the person to tell them of Sherlock’s death. This time it was good news but that didn’t make it easier, Mycroft thought. His parents hadn’t talked to him since the funeral and since he had no idea how they would react to his news he had decided to drive himself. He parked the Jaguar in front of the cottage. Everything felt like a déjà-vu, except for the different season. He took a deep breath before he walked up to the door. He knocked and waited. His mother opened the door and just looked at him.

 

“Mummy. Can I come in?” Mycroft asked softly. His mother just looked at him, obviously unsure whether she should break her promise of never talking to him again. “Please. I need to talk to you both. It is important.” Mycroft pleaded.

 

“Okay.” She answered curtly as she stepped in waiting for him to follow. When he walked into the living room he saw that his father was reading on the sofa.

 

“It is Mycie. He wants to talk with us. He says it is important.” His mother explained coolly as she sat down beside her husband.

 

“You look tired, Mycie.” His father said with a small smile. Tired was not the right word, the last weeks have left him absolutely exhausted, Mycroft thought. Both his parents looked at him expectantly as he sat down on the chair opposite.

 

“Yes. It is about Sherlock.” Mycroft started, suddenly feeling the same lump in his throat he felt when he had told them that their youngest son was dead. It shouldn’t be so difficult to tell them that he was in fact alive.

 

“What about Sherlock?” His father asked. “I hope you have finally found the person who killed him.”

 

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Yes and no.” He sensed the confusion in his parent’s faces and continued. “Yes, we found the person, but no, not the one who killed him, because.” He paused for a moment. “Because Sherlock is alive.”

 

“What?” His mother cried out. “But you said.”

 

“I know what I said.” Mycroft interrupted her. “I was fooled. The agent who told us about Sherlock’s death was a mole. The material used for DNA testing was given to us to make us believe that the burnt body was Sherlock’s, but it wasn’t.”

 

“He is alive?” His father whispered unbelievingly.

 

“Yes. Do you remember Victor Trevor?” Mycroft started to explain. His parents nodded. “Victor found Sherlock.”

 

“And where is he? Is he okay?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

 

“Sherlock is in a military hospital outside of London. He.” Mycroft hesitated for a moment. “He is getting better.”

 

“What has happened?” Mr. Holmes asked while Mrs. Holmes blurted simultaneously. “Is he hurt?”

 

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather the courage to tell their parents the truth. He and Sherlock had discussed whether to tell them the truth or not. Back when Sherrinford has fled the country Sherlock had gotten his way and they had told their parents a lie that covered up Sherrinford’s true intentions and character. Mycroft hadn’t understood back then why Sherlock felt the need to cover up for Sherrinford but he had accepted it. This time Mycroft had insisted to tell them the truth and Sherlock had agreed reluctantly. Now, sitting in front of their parents Mycroft thought that a lie might have been the easier way. He took another deep breath before he started.

 

“I will tell you the whole story, but I asked you to listen without interruptions till the end. Okay?”

His parents nodded and Mycroft told them everything, the fact that he had sent Sherlock to Eastern Europe with no idea that Sherrinford was Anton Baracnik. And then he told them the real reasons why Sherrinford had left Britain and the way he had treated Sherlock back then and when they both have been children. His mother continuously shook her head and whispered. “No, no, no.” But otherwise his parents listened to all his explanation with shock written all over their faces but they didn’t interrupt him, until he started to explain what Sherrinford had done to Sherlock after he had captured him.

 

“No, that cannot be.” His mother said. “No, I can’t believe that. Ford wouldn’t do something like that to his brother. Nobody tortures someone for fun. Houses like that don’t exist.” She by now vehemently shook her head.

 

Mycroft bit his lower lip. His mother had always hoped for Ford’s return and even if she hadn’t blamed him or Sherlock for Ford’s disappearance she more than once had asked both of them to look for their lost brother. Therefore, Mycroft had expected a reaction like that and he had taken the videos with him. He hasn’t asked Sherlock if it would be okay to show them, well, he hasn’t told Sherlock that those videos existed in the first place, but he felt that this was the only way to convince them of the truth. So without saying a single word he opened his computer notebook and pressed play before he placed it on the coffee table in front of his parents. He didn’t need to see it again. It was enough to hear Ford taunting Sherlock and hearing the noise of the whip as it made contact with Sherlock’s skin to make Mycroft shudder. Instead he watched his parents, who were paralyzed as they looked at the screen. After Ford had shown Sherlock the newspaper article about the funeral and continued to whip him Sherlock’s screams filled the living room and his mother croaked through her tears. “Turn it off.”

 

Mycroft shook his head. “No. You have to watch it till the end to really understand what has happened, to see who Ford really is.”

 

And so they watched in horror, saw how Sherlock begged his brother to kill him only to be declined. The video ended with Sherrinford leaving the room and the guards coming in to free Sherlock from the restraints. Sherlock instantly dropped to the ground, unable to support himself anymore. The guards tried to force him to get up with the electric cattle prod, but they soon gave up and dragged him out of the room. Mycroft looked at his parents. His father had his hand clasped in front of his mouth. His mother was crying.

 

“Victor found Sherlock about three weeks after that video was made. He got him out and brought him back to England. They contacted me when they were here, but since we weren’t sure if Ford had followed them and if he had further moles placed in my organization, we had to be very careful. Victor and Sherlock stayed in a cottage on Sussex. I only asked John Watson to treat Sherlock. After a couple of days we had to transfer him to a hospital. For a few days it looked really bad.” Mycroft gulped against the lump in his throat. “He nearly died, but he made it.”

 

His parents looked at him, still utterly shocked. “Can we visit Sherlock?” His mother asked still sobbing.

 

“Sure.” Mycroft said and he paused for a moment. “Sherlock didn’t want to tell you that it was Ford. Like back then he thought it would be better that way for you. I convinced him that you were entitled to the truth.” Mycroft waited another moment before he continued. “But please don’t tell him that I showed you the video. I haven’t told him yet that we found those videos when we captured Ford.”

 

“Videos? There are more?” His father asked.

 

“Yes. This is the one that shows Ford, but there are videos covering the whole three months while Sherlock was in that house.” Mycroft explained. “I will tell him and I will give them to him, but right now I don’t think that that would be a good idea. Beside the physical wounds that are slowly healing he is deeply traumatized. He tries to cover that up, but I think the last thing he needs to know at this

 

No one said a word for a while before his father finally asked. “And what about Ford?”

 

Mycroft thought for a moment about telling them about Mary’s role in Ford’s capture but decided against that. “We were able to capture him in Dover. He was following the trail of Victor and Sherlock. He had those videos with him. He is now in a secret high security prison which he will never leave again.” Mycroft said with disdain in his voice. His father just nodded.

 

“Can we drive to the hospital now?” His mother asked.

 

“Sure. I will call Sherlock and tell them that we will be on our way.” Mycroft answered.

 

A few minutes later his parents were following him in their own car. They hadn’t asked to see Sherrinford and Mycroft wondered if they would want to see him any time soon.

 

 


	22. Visitors

Sherlock was nearly dozing off. He and Victor had just been walking up and down the room for a while as the doctors determined that Sherlock needed to be mobilized. Now he was absolutely exhausted. Victor was lying on the bed beside him reading some boring newspaper articles to him, but Sherlock didn’t really listen to him as he was thinking about the visitors who were about to come. His brother has just called to tell him that his parents were on their way. He felt a strange kind of anticipation. He was looking forward to see them, but he was also afraid of their reaction. He remembered the picture in the newspaper that Ford had shown him – their grieve was so clearly visible. And now they knew that he was alive, but they also knew about Ford. Mycroft had only hinted how they reacted to the things he had told them.

 

Sherlock’s thoughts wandered from his parents to Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. John would tell them tomorrow that Sherlock was alive. While he owed it to them to tell them that he was alive, he wasn’t really looking forward to their visits. They would surely overwhelm him with their sentiment and pity. Of course, neither Molly, nor Mrs. Hudson nor Lestrade would learn the truth about what had happened to him. Sherlock and Mycroft agreed that they didn’t need to know. It would be enough to tell them of the mole who faked Sherlock’s death and that he was rescued. They even agreed with Victor that there was no immediate need to tell them that it was Victor who had rescued him. Maybe in the future he would tell them, but right now they only needed to know the very basic facts.

 

“Will, there is a message from your brother. He just arrived at the hospital with your parents.”

Victor’s voice stopped Sherlock’s musings. He had to face his parents and he had no idea why it frightened him. He took a deep breath that triggered a cough that rattled through his whole body. He tried to sit up a bit more, but he didn’t manage. Immediately Victor was by his side, helping him to lean forward. Sherlock held his arms carefully wrapped around his ribcage as the cough didn’t subside. It was so painful it brought tears to his eyes. He coughed and coughed and didn’t even notice that Mycroft and his parents entered the room. He only became aware of their presence as his mother was suddenly sitting on the other side and holding him up as well.

 

“Oh, Sherlock.” She said sadly.

 

He looked at her and he was quite sure that he looked horrible and that the coughing contributed to that significantly. “Hi Mummy.” He croaked when the coughing finally stopped. “Let me lie back.”

 

“Yes, of course.” His mother helped him to carefully lay back. He was out of breath and as if he had sensed it Victor placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and then increased the morphine dose on the PCA.

 

“Just breathe.” Victor said his eyes fixed on him.

 

It took a few moments until Sherlock breathed calmly again. His father and his brother stood awkwardly beside the hospital bed, while his mother still sat beside him. When Sherlock was obviously feeling better Victor stepped aside.

 

“I leave you alone for a bit.” Victor said as he looked at Sherlock’s parents.

 

The following minutes were filled with a mixture of soothing words from his mother, helpless smiles form his father and an awkward silence that followed every one of his coughing fits. It was clear that his parents were overwhelmed by the situation. They didn’t say a single word about Sherrinford or what had happened. For a moment Sherlock wondered what exactly Mycroft had told them. They had discussed it in advance, but this wasn’t the reaction he had expected. Sherlock didn’t quite know what to say. At one point when his mother doubted the medical treatment. He said he was fine, but of course that was an all too obvious lie as in that precise moment he doubled over as another wracking cough shook his body. He was faintly aware of his mothers shocked face.

 

“The coughing is necessary.” John explained had just as he entered the room. Sherlock just nodded and listened to John’s medical explanation about the mucus that had to leave the lungs. As he took another deep breath the next coughing fit was triggered. Over the next minutes he hacked and coughed and with each coughing pain shot through his ribcage. When it was finally over he was completely exhausted. He lay back, closing his eyes and just tried to breathe calmly.

 

“I think Sherlock needs some rest.” He heard John ushering his parents and his brother out of the room. When he came back he sat down beside the bed. “When I didn’t know it better I would say you are allergic to your family.” John joked.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. It was true, he hadn’t coughed that much the whole morning. “It was just awkward.” He said quietly, his voice raspy from all the coughing. “They didn’t know what to talk about and neither do I know what to say.”

 

John nodded. “Well, I guess it is not an easy situation for them. And for you.”

 

At this precise moment Victor returned to the room. “Everything okay?”

 

“He is exhausted after an awkward hour with his parents.” John summarized what happened.

 

“I can imagine that.” Victor said with a smile and he and John switched the positions.

 

“Well, take care of him, Victor. I will be back tomorrow.” John said as he took Sherlock’s hand and gave him it a light squeeze. “I will visit Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson tomorrow. I will call you afterwards.”

 

Sherlock just nodded and watch him leave.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The visits of Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Mrs. Hudson were not much better than those of his parents. They were all happy that he was alive but also quite overwhelmed by his bad physical condition even though by now it was much better than before. They didn’t asked what had happened and Sherlock was grateful for that. Sherlock guessed that John had explained at least a little bit just as they had agreed upon. But it was awkward anyway.

 

Mrs. Hudson fussed over him, but he hadn’t expected anything else. Victor always stepped aside when she was there and watched her with an amused smile from the chair by the window. But there was also an undeniable good side of Mrs. Hudson visits as she brought him his beloved mince pies and scones, claiming that the hospital food must be awful. When he said that he had worse food while he was kept imprisoned she had stared at him with shock. He tried to avoid those kinds of slips after that.

 

Molly’s visits were strange on a different level. She was so shocked by his obviously fragile state that she was on the brink of tears during her first visit. Sherlock felt the need to comfort her which led to an outburst of apologies by Molly. Thankfully they found that the best solution for her visits was for her to tell him about some cases she had in the morgue. That was a known territory and it also helped Sherlock to cope with his boredom that increased the further the healing advanced. He came to a similar agreement with Greg who brought him some cold cases to look at. Greg was the only one who after a few visits dared to ask questions about what happened to him. Sherlock thought a moment about telling him but then he just asked him not to force him to talk about it.

 

Every time a visitor was gone Sherlock was quite relieved. He was also glad for every intervention of John and Victor who sometimes just came in, ushered his visitors away and forcing him to rest. Sherlock sometimes wished for John’s or Victor’s intervention when his parents visited him but that rarely happened. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t wanted his parents to visit him, but those stays were always extremely odd. In comparison to his friends they knew what happened, but while they talked to him about all kind of staff, they never asked about how he felt about it and they never ever asked about Ford. Sherlock knew by now that Mycroft had really told them what had happened, probably not with all the gruesome details, but still with enough information that should provoke some kind of reaction. But that never happened.

 

Sherlock was only truly relaxed when Victor, John or Mary where there. They weren’t fazed by his coughing. He sometimes caught the guilt in John’s and Mary’s eyes, but they were well aware that it was something Sherlock didn’t want to see or discuss. Most importantly they didn’t look at him with pity. Oh, how he hated the pity in the eyes of his other visitors and the guilt, that he saw in his parent’s and Mycroft’s eyes. But he endured it and hoped it would fade once he was out of the hospital.

 

 


	23. An unacceptable apology and a journey

 

John was surprised not to find Sherlock in his hospital room. For just a moment a deep fear ran through him. Had something happened? He ran to the nurse room.

 

“Where is Sherlock Holmes?” He asked out of breath.

 

The nursed looked at him surprised. “He has physiotherapy. As he should walk more, the therapist decided to continue the exercises in the gym.”

 

John nodded relieved and made his way to the gym that was situated at the ground floor. But he didn’t need to go all the way as he spotted Sherlock at the end of the hallway, just on his way back. John took a moment to take in what he saw. Of course, he had seen Sherlock walking in the past few days, but only ever a few steps within the confines of his room or up and down the hallway. But now he saw him walking down the hallway, leaning heavily on a crutch in order not to put too much weight on his left foot. Something in John’s chest tightened. He remembered the talk he had with one of Sherlock’s doctors about the lasting damage, but that was abstract, but now he saw it. Sherlock would never be able to run around London like he used to. The physiotherapy would make it better, and a second operation in the future might lead to further improvement, but the foot would never be the same regardless of that. The damage done to the nerves and the soft tissue was irreversible. While John thought about those gloomy prospects Sherlock had approached him.

 

“You are thinking.” He said with a smirk. “Stop it. It is painful to watch.”

 

John looked at him. “Sometimes it is not that easy.” They stood side by side, a bit awkwardly. “You want to go back to your room?” John asked.

 

“No, not really. I thought about walking a bit more. The therapist had encouraged me to walk more.” Sherlock responded with a mocking frown.

 

“Okay. I will join you.” John said.

 

So they walked through the hallways of the hospital into the direction of a small café. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a few tables and a small counter. While they walked in silence John glanced over to watch Sherlock every now and then. He couldn’t help but see the pain that walking caused Sherlock.

 

“Let us sit down for a moment.” John suggested. “I’ll get us some tea.”

 

Sherlock just nodded and was visibility relieved to be able to sit down.

 

“Sherlock.” John started. He had decided that this was the moment to say what he wanted to say ever since he had seen his best friend after his return.

 

“Don’t.” Sherlock said and turned to face his friend. “Just don’t.”

 

John smiled. “You don’t know what I want to say.”

 

“I know and I’d rather you don’t.” Sherlock said sternly.

 

“I don’t think you know and I will anyway. So please let me.” John intervened. He definitely wanted to say it, but now he was afraid. As the pause stretched on he took a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you that I am sorry, that without me, none of that would have happened. You wouldn’t have been sent on that mission, you wouldn’t have been hurt.” John gulped. “Your life would have been better if you would have never met me. You would still be okay, you would not be in pain all of the time, you would not need a crutch and you would still be solving crimes in London and.” John stopped as he didn’t know what else to say.

 

“Are you finished?” Sherlock asked and John could hear that Sherlock was indignant so John just nodded. “You are wrong.” Sherlock said. “You think none of that would have happened and that my life would have been better. Well, you are right in some ways, but the second part of your assumption is definitely wrong. You want to know why?”

 

John just nodded and watched his friend, slightly scarred by the intensity of Sherlock’s glare.

“Without you I would have been dead by now.” Sherlock paused a moment and just as John wanted to intervene he continued. “I would have taken that pill, back then with the cabbie. I would have taken that pill and not because I would have gotten a kick out of it. Yes, maybe to prove that I am clever, but really I didn’t know if I got the right one. My suspicion was that both pills were deadly and that the cabbie had taken an antidote before. I would have tried it any way, mainly because I couldn’t care less whether I would be right or not.” John gasped and wanted to say something but Sherlock raised his hand to stop him. “I wasn’t suicidal back then, but I didn’t really care either. I took risks, because I didn’t care if I lived or not. And I didn’t have the feeling that there was something or someone in my life. I was lonely even though I would have never admitted that back then. But you changed that. I told you at your wedding. You saved me. And shooting the cabbie was just the beginning. You cared from the beginning and it didn’t matter what I did to test you, to make you snap. The head in the fridge, the shooting of the wall, the experiments in the tub. You stayed, you cared, even more than before. It was fascinating and oddly reassuring to know that you excepted me for who I am.”

 

John still wanted to say something but Sherlock’s explanation had left him baffled. “You see, John, yes, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up shooting Magnussen, but maybe it would have happened anyway. Maybe I would have died before anyway, taking that pill or playing the game with Moriarty. I surly wouldn’t have fought the way I did those two years away. I fought to come back, and maybe I would have really jumped from that roof in the first place.” Sherlock paused. “The one thing I am sure about is that I am happy that you limbed into my life back then and that you became my friend, my best friend. I didn’t have friends, not before you, never. And ever since Victor and I, since we broke up I was too afraid to let somebody close, but you changed that too. You made me acknowledge that I indeed have friends, that there are people who care about me.” Sherlock stopped again. “So don’t you dare to think that I would have been better off without you.”

 

John looked at his friends and smiled a bit. “Okay, got that. But I am still sorry.”

 

“What for? Sorry that I have a psychopathic brother who hates me and who loved to see me suffer. You are hardly responsible for that.” Sherlock said with a huff.

 

“But you would have not been sent on that mission if it were not for Mary.” John interrupted him.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and another. “Magnussen saw that you were my pressure point and I would have done everything to stop him. He put you in a bonfire. That was reason enough to kill him.”

 

Both man sat in silence for a moment before John started again. “But Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock immediately stopped him. “Could we just stop this conversation about guilt and who is responsible? It is annoying.  Can’t we just go on with our life and not dwell on the past?” He sighed.

 

 “Okay.” John agreed begrudgingly. “Let’s go back to your room. I think you need some rest.”

 

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, Doctor.”

 

  

* * *

“When can I leave this place?” Sherlock asked looking expectantly at John. “I am bored.”

 

John took a deep breath. They had discussed this question nearly every day for the past week and John felt a little bit reminded of travelling with children who always ask when they would finally arrive. “You still need medical treatment. I talked to the doctors today. They suggest a rehabilitation clinic at the coast. The sea air would be good for you lungs. And you need to continue the physical therapy for the foot and your arm. What they don’t want you to do, and I agree, is to go back to London and pretend that you are healthy. That would bring you back to hospital very fast.”

 

Sherlock pouted. He definitely didn’t want to leave this hospital just to go to another hospital. He was sick of this kind of environment and of people fussing over him all of the time. And the food was awful. And it was incredible boring. Back at home he could at least do some experiments.

 

“How about if we go back to the cottage in Sussex?” Victor asked. “It is near the coast. I can take care of him, force him to rest enough, to eat enough, to do his exercises. We could take your chemical equipment with us and you could do some experiments. And I have also spotted some beehives in the neighbourhood.”

 

Sherlock was surprised. He hadn’t expected Victor to stay so long with him and even less to make a suggestion like that. He just didn’t know what to say.

 

John just looked at them both. “Okay, I will talk to the doctors about that.”

 

When he left Victor sat down beside Sherlock’s bed. “We don’t have to go back to Sussex. I mean, you don’t have to go there with me.” Victor took a deep breath. “I just thought that you are probably sick of hospitals of any kind.”

 

Sherlock smiled. “Sussex would be great. I wasn’t really able to enjoy it the last time.” He wanted to say more, to asked why Victor wanted to go there with him, but he was too frightened what the answer might be. He settled for a simple. “Thank you.”

 

“You are welcomed.” Victor spoke softly and smiled.

 

Maybe Sherlock thought, this was not the time to overthink those things. Maybe he should just enjoy Victor’s company as long as it lasted.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once the decision was made to go back to the cottage Mycroft was employed to take care of renting the cottage again, delivering what they needed and organizing the transfer. When they moved in Victor didn’t ask Sherlock if they should share the big master bedroom. Instead he immediately moved his stuff into the smaller of the two bedrooms. He didn’t notice Sherlock’s expression that clearly showed a bit of disappointment. But Sherlock also didn’t dare to ask him, to afraid of a rejection.

 

It took them a few days to find a routine. In the first few days they had frequent visitors. John felt the need to make sure that Sherlock’s health was further on the mend. His other friends only came on the weekends as it was quite a journey to the coast. Mycroft and his parents came by as well, but their visits were still awkward and one day Sherlock finally snapped and he made it clear that he needed some space, some time alone.

 

With less visitors and more time for themselves there were also less distractions. All those weeks since Victor had managed to rescue him Sherlock was fighting for his life, utterly exhausted, sedated or filled up with pain medication. He still took painkillers, he still was exhausted. As predicted by John and the other doctors his body would need a long time to heal from the whole ordeal. But now his mind was catching up, demanding attention. Sherlock spend quite some time in his mind palace or in what was left of it. It was a disaster. His once well organized mind palace was wreckage, ruled by chaos, partly burnt and destroyed. Only a few rooms were sort of intact. And there were those rooms deep down in the cellar that he used to pack away the memories of those three months spent in the manor. He hadn’t been able to delete it. He tried it now, but it didn’t work. Instead those memories came haunting him at night. Sherlock knew he needed to rebuild his mind palace and ban those memories deep down into the dungeons, but somehow he wasn’t able to rebuild it. Most of the time he was just able to stand frozen in the middle of the chaos, unable to move, unable to change anything.

 


	24. Haunted by the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everybody who still reads this story. Thank you.
> 
> In case you wondered, the story will be going on for a bit. Yes, Sherlock is out of hospital, but I also want to cover his whole recovery and that might take a while. And of course, there are still some other personal aspects not resolved. So please keep reading. I will do my best to keep you entertained.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room seemingly lost in thought when Victor opened the door, which gave away a noisy creak. The next thing he saw was how Sherlock dropped the cane and how he was sinking onto the floor, kneeling, his hands stretched out, his head bowed. His breathing was getting fast, nearly erratic.

 

Carefully Victor got closer and got to his knees as well. “Will, are you okay?” He asked, but he got no reaction. “Will, please, look at me.”

 

Sherlock just kept his eyes on the floor and didn’t react. Cautiously Victor placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and the other man flinched nearly undetectable. His breathing became even more erratic and his whole body was trembling by now. Victor realized that it must be a flashback.

 

“Will, you are safe. You are not there anymore. We are in Sussex, in our cottage.” Victor gently grabbed the arms that Sherlock still held stretched out. Then he wrapped his arms around the trembling body.

 

“Shhh, Will, you are safe. I have you. I will never let anybody hurt you again.” Sherlock was tense in his embrace, shuddering more viciously, head still bowed, eyes fixated on some spot on the floor.

“You are safe. You are not there anymore.” Victor repeated the words like a mantra and slowly, very slowly, Sherlock seemed to come back to reality. As the tension left his body he nearly crumbled to the ground, but Victor held him close, wrapping his arms tighter around the man he loved, waiting.

 

“I, ehh, I.” Sherlock started. He couldn’t find the words. He knew what had happened. He had heard how the door was opened and suddenly he was back in the cell, waiting obediently to be taken away for another torture session. How could he not notice that it wasn’t real?

 

“It is okay.” Victor whispered and loosening his grip just a bit. “You don’t need to explain.” They sat on the floor for quite a while before Victor got up and helped Sherlock to the sofa where the other man curled up and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

It was the first full flashback, but both the flashbacks and nightmares became worse over the time. Victor wished he could help Sherlock, find a way to make it better. It has been three weeks since he was allowed to leave the hospital and while he got better physically his mental state had worsened every day. It had started with nightmares which were so frequent that Sherlock was pretty sleep-deprived by now. Daytimes there were vivid flashbacks and panic attacks that left Sherlock distressed and worn. He had even stopped playing the violin that he had brought with him to Sussex.

 

When they had visitors, like John and Mary with their daughter, Sherlock could somehow keep up the façade that he was getting better. But he crashed down shortly after they had left. So far Victor hasn’t talked to anybody about it, hoping they would manage somehow, that things would get better after a while. But Victor felt that he was losing contact to Sherlock a little bit every day. And each day Sherlock slept less, ate even less and became more and more lethargic.

 

One day when Sherlock was dozing on the sofa Victor sat down with his computer and searched for answers. What he found was not what he had hoped for, but it was clear that Sherlock had developed a severe depression. Victor learned that that was not uncommon for people suffering PTSD and there was no doubt that the months in the manor have left Sherlock deeply traumatized.  And it was also inevitable that Sherlock needed professional help. Victor sighed. He knew that Sherlock had made some really bad experiences with psychiatrists in his childhood and that it wouldn’t be easy to convince him to get help.

 

* * *

It was one day later in the evening when another vivid flashback left Sherlock kneeling in the middle of the floor again. Victor again tried to snap him out of it while he held a trembling and by now way too thin body in his arms. He didn’t know what to do, other than to hold Sherlock tight and tell him that he was safe, but it wasn’t enough. Sherlock was still trembling in his arms when his voice interrupted Victor’s line of thoughts.

 

“There is nothing left.” Sherlock whispered. “Nothing. He broke me, he broke my body and even worse he broke my mind.”

 

“That is not true.” Victor intervened.

 

“Is it not?” Sherlock asked with bitterness in his voice. “Look at me. I am pathetic. The creaking of the door leaves me kneeling on the floor, willing to let them take me to whatever they wanted to do with me. I am like a Pavelov’s dog and they trained me well.” Sherlock said distressed. “You know it just takes the noise of the door and I am back there. I was expected to immediately kneel in the middle of the cell when they opened the door.”

 

Victor just listened as he had no idea what to say.

 

“At first I tried to resist but the guards had electro cattle prods and.” Sherlock’s voice broke.

 

“Shh, you are not there anymore and they are all dead.” Victor said softly.

 

“But don’t you see. That is the point. I am not there and they are dead, but I am there and it doesn’t take more than a creaking door to bring me back.”

 

Victor swore that he would oil every single door in the cottage but he also knew that that wasn’t the solution.

 

“I’ve lost control of my mind; the only thing I could always rely on is betraying me. I lose control. I slip further and further away, there is nothing left of me.” Sherlock couldn’t stop the tears. He didn’t dare to look at Victor so he closed his eyes and whispered. “I wish it would have ended back there.”

 

Victor was shocked to hear those words, but he also felt a rush of anger. “Don’t say that. Don’t even dare to think that.”

 

“Why not? It is the truth?” Sherlock said.

 

“It is not the truth.” Victor shook Sherlock who flinched a bit and turned away. Victor jumped up, let the still trembling Sherlock sitting on the floor.

 

“Why not? Can’t you see what is happening? He has won.” Sherlock said, still not looking up.

 

“He has only won when you let him.” Victor said while pacing up and down.

 

“Then I let him win.” Sherlock said tonelessly.

 

Victor just shook his head.  He had no idea what he to say. “I need fresh air.” He stormed out of the room slamming the door behind him. He grabbed his coat and walked outside. It was already dark, but Victor didn’t care. He walked out through the fields, taking deep breaths, desperately trying not to think about Sherlock’s words. After a few minutes he stopped in the middle of the farm track. It had started to rain, darkness was all around him. And suddenly it hit him like a hammer. He had left Sherlock on his own, the man he loved, a man deeply traumatized and depressed, who has just told him that he would rather die than carry on. Oh God, Victor thought, he might kill himself. With that thought in mind Victor turned around and ran back to the cottage. He stormed inside.

 

“Will, where are you?” He screamed. “Oh please, no, no.” He whispered to himself when he couldn’t see Sherlock in the dimly lit living room. “Will, please, where are you?” He yelled again and running into the nearly dark bedroom. And there he found him, curled in the farthest corner of the room, wrapped tight in the duvet from the bed.

 

“I am here.” Sherlock said very quietly.

 

“Oh god, you are alive, I was, I just thought.” Victor stammered while getting rid of his muddy shoes and his coat and getting on his knees in front of Sherlock.

 

“You thought I kill myself.” Sherlock stated. It wasn’t a question, just a statement. “I thought about it.” His eyes turned to the floor in front of him where Victor’s gun was lying.

 

Victor took a deep breath and pushed the gun away. “Will you let me in?” Victor asked softly.

 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and it pained Victor to see all the pain and despair in those beautiful eyes, but then Sherlock lifted the duvet and let Victor crawl close to him. Victor took the other man in a tight embrace and Sherlock started to sob. For a while neither man spoke a word.

 

“I don’t want to lose you.” Victor started. “I lost you once and I always condemned myself for leaving you, for making those wrong decisions, for not fighting to get you back. I will not leave you now and I cannot accept that you give up, not after everything you survived so far.”

 

“Victor.” Sherlock tried to intervene.

 

“No, listen to me. I know you feel like there is nothing left of you, but I know that there is enough of you still there. You were still you when I got you out, when you came up with the cipher to send to Mycroft, when you planned the route to bring us back to England. You were still you, when your body was fighting to survive. I know that right now all of that is buried underneath those nightmares and flashbacks. But I also know that we will find a way to get it back, to get you back.” Sherlock didn’t respond, so Victor continued. “The thing is we will not make it alone. We need help, professional help.” He felt how Sherlock’s body tensed in his embrace at those words.

 

“No, please, I, I don’t want to go back there.” Sherlock stuttered. “They will lock me up again, drug me, sedate me, I, I can’t.” Sherlock breathing accelerated as Victor started to understand the meaning behind those words. He remembered what Sherlock had told him back when they were younger, how he was sectioned because Sherrinford made their parents believe that it was Sherlock who had killed the neighbor’s cat, how he had to spend months in a mental ward.

 

“No, no, no.” Victor hastily replied. “I will not allow that, believe me. I will not let you be sectioned. That was not what I meant. We will stay here and I will be with you. I am sure we can find a therapist who can work with you here. Mycroft will surely find someone who has experience with PTSD. I will not allow anybody to take you away.”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer but Victor’s words calmed him down a bit. They just lay there for a long time neither of them speaking. Finally Victor got up and murmured. “Too uncomfortable for my old bones.” He helped Sherlock up and led him to the bed. They both dropped to the mattress, covered themselves with the duvet again and Victor pulled Sherlock close again. He was tired but he kept himself awake until he was sure that Sherlock was asleep.

 

 


	25. To die for

Sherlock slept through that night without a nightmare. When he woke up Victor was already up. He obviously was puttering around in the kitchen. Sherlock felt strangely fine, calm in comparison to the inner uproar of yesterday. He carefully got up and looked for the cane before he remembered that he had left it in the living room. So he limped to the living room when he heard Victor’s voice.

 

“Mycroft, I don’t care what you think is the best. I told you what we need and either you help us or you will leave us alone.” Victor said. His voice was still quiet, but his anger was clearly audible. “And you think that would help? What will they do to him? Lock him up? How do you think he will deal with that? He was locked up for three month.” Victor hissed.

 

Sherlock stood frozen in the middle of the living room. One needed not to be a genius to guess what Mycroft’s preposition was – a mental institution, a place where they would lock him away. Unwanted memories from his childhood flooded Sherlock’s mind, the doors that closed behind him, the doctors that didn’t believe him, the times he tried to escape and was subsequently strapped to his bed, the drugs that numbed his mind, Ford laughing at him when he had visited. Sherlock tried to get rid of those memories when he heard Victor yelling.

 

“If you do that then you are not better than Sherrinford.” Mycroft was obviously interrupting Victor, but he had no chance. “It doesn’t matter that your intentions are good. The result will be the same. You will destroy him, you will break him and he will not survive it. And to be honest, I told you back when you came to Sussex that Sherrinford would only get him over my dead body and that I would rather die and kill him before allowing him to ever touch him again. Well, let me extend that promise to you. When you will try to get him sectioned you will have to kill me and I’d rather kill him and myself before I will allow you to lock him away.”

 

Sherlock tried to process what he had just heard. Victor would die for him. Now there was only silence. Mycroft was obviously talking. When Victor talked again his voice was calm again.

 

“Good. Do that. We will wait for your suggestions. And don’t try to fool me.” Sherlock heard Victor sigh and then he was suddenly standing in front of him.

 

“You listened?” Victor asked a bit shocked.

 

Sherlock just nodded.

 

“I meant it.” Victor stated while laying his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. It had a strangely soothing effect. “I will not allow him to take you away.” Victor emphasized. “He said he will look for therapists who are willing to work here. He will send us his suggestions and then you can make a decision.”

 

“We.” Sherlock whispered.

 

“We?”

 

“We will make the decision.” Sherlock said a bit louder.

 

“Yes, we will.” Victor smiled. “Let us have breakfast now. You are way too thin.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day passed in a kind of lazy but also tense atmosphere. They didn’t talk much, just sat together on the sofa. Sherlock curled up. He was tense all over. He wasn’t sure if Mycroft would really keep his word. He still expected this to be his last day here in Sussex and his last day in freedom. Part of him wanted to run away, but a rational part in him knew that he couldn’t do that, that he was neither physical nor mentally fit enough to be on the run. And there was Victor and his promise. It calmed Sherlock a bit in a very strange and surreal way, the idea that someone would be willing to die for him.

 

Late in the evening they heard a car stopping in front of the house. Sherlock immediately tensed up. Victor got up and grabbed the gun he had put on the coffee table. He walked to the front door while Sherlock stayed in the living room. Only seconds later Victor came back with Mycroft a few steps behind him. And it was only Mycroft, nobody else, as Sherlock immediately noticed.

 

“Hello Sherlock.” Mycroft said. He sounded humble and he bit his lower lip. Sherlock noticed the hint of insecurity in his brother’s posture just before he was able to return to his usual aloof self. While Sherlock was intrigued by Mycroft’s behavior Victor had sat down beside Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock had only noticed him when he put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, an act of assurance.

 

“I thought I bring you the files on the therapists myself.” Mycroft said and he put his briefcase on the coffee table, sat down on the chair opposite of the sofa. He got three files out of the case. “They all have a very good reputation and they all can start next week. They work with different methods. There is some information on the methods in the files but I am sure you can manage to find more information online. I already rented a cottage in the village. So who ever you will choose will not stay here but will live in the village.”

 

Sherlock just stared at his brother still not quite sure if this was really happening.

 

“Victor has told you about our phone call.” Mycroft started to fill the silence. “Sherlock, I am sorry. I was wrong.”

 

Now Sherlock really thought he was dreaming. His brother would never admit to be wrong. And Mycroft seemed to sense his thoughts.

 

“I know I don’t admit that very often, but I’ve been wrong and Victor was right. The best thing for you would be to get the help here with Victor by your side and a therapist you will trust. If you don’t want one of those three feel free to look for another. I will organize everything.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you.” He croaked.

 

Mycroft opened his brief case again. What he got out looked like a slipcase and when he opened it Sherlock could see more than a dozen CDs.

 

“What is that?” Victor asked.

 

“Another mistake.” Mycroft said. “I shouldn’t have kept them without your knowledge.” Mycroft paused for a moment, suddenly he looked unsure, but then he continued. “When Mary captured Ford we found those among his belongings.”

 

And suddenly Sherlock knew what those CDs contained and he couldn’t hide his shock. “Did you watch them?” He asked with a quivering voice and he didn’t notice the confusion on Victor’s face.

 

“Some.” Mycroft admitted. “The first one, the one with Ford.” He paused unsure which words to use and decided to just skip the description. “I took glances of some others. The labels clearly indicate what happened.” Mycroft noticed how Sherlock closed his eyes, how he pressed his lips into a thin line and how he tried to hide the trembling of his hands. “I know I should have not done that without your knowledge and permission.” Mycroft said watching his brother for a further reaction.

 

And now Victor realized what the two Holmes brothers talked about. On those CDs were the videos that showed how Sherlock was tortured. Victor took a deep breath and turned to take a look at Sherlock who looked petrified and now stared at his brother.

 

“Did anybody else saw them?” Sherlock asked after a while.

 

“I am sorry, but I needed them to see what Ford was capable of doing. When I told them they didn’t believe me.” Mycroft stammered.

 

“That explained their uptight behavior when they visited me in hospital.” Sherlock said, his voice strangely calm, a bit vacant.

 

Victor again tried to get the meaning behind those words but the brothers could only talk about their parents. The idea that Mycroft needed to show his parents a video, that depicted how Sherrinford whipped his own brother until he begged to be killed, just to convince them that that really had happened that was just scary. Sherlock had told Victor what had happened, seeing it would be horrible.

 

“Why do you give me those CDs now?” Sherlock asked next.

 

“I should have given them to you right away.” Mycroft said. “You are the only one who should decide what you want to do with them.”

 

“Are there copies?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Not that we know. I haven’t made any copies and those were the only ones we found. We have searched the bolt holes Ford had in Eastern Europe, but we only found videos of other victims, but of course there might be copies hidden somewhere else.” Mycroft explained.

 

Sherlock just nodded. “I am tired. We will look at those files tomorrow and tell you our choice.” With that Sherlock got up. He grabbed his cane and slowly made his way to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He heard Victor telling Mycroft goodbye and moments later the car drove away. Victor knocked on the door and waited for Sherlock to ask him to come in.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you okay?” Victor asked softly.

 

Sherlock looked at him. “No, not really, but the day turned out better than expected.” Sherlock said with a quiet and calm voice. “I was quite sure that I would either end up in a mental home or dead and here I am.” He snorted quietly.

 

Victor smiled and sat down on the bed beside Sherlock. “Yeah, I wasn’t quite sure if he would stick to his promise either. And how do you feel about those videos?”

 

Sherlock remained silent for a moment. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “And I’d rather not think about it right now.”

 

“Okay.” Victor said and he was about to get up and leave the room.

 

“Vic?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Please don’t watch them.” Sherlock said low-voiced.

 

“Of course not.” Victor said and watched Sherlock who stared at the ceiling again. He was already in the doorway when he heard Sherlock speaking again.

 

“Vic?” He whispered.

 

“Yes?”

 

Sherlock hesitated. “Will you stay with me? Tonight?”

 

“Of course.”  Victor smiled . “I will be back in a minute.”

 


	26. A start

In the end it was an easy decision. The therapist they chose was a woman in her late 50s. She had worked mainly with soldiers but had also worked for the MI6. She employed a mixture of mindfulness-based cognitive therapy, a kind of meditation, and eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. Both methods had a scientific background that suited Sherlock’s way of thinking and from what he gathered from Mycroft’s file Doctor Rosewood was a no fuss kind of person, a deduction that the woman proved in every way. But it was another deduction that let to Sherlock trusting her after only seeing her for a few seconds. She had a dog, as it turned out a female border collie called Buffy. Sherlock didn’t waste any time and asked her to bring her along to the therapy sessions.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sherlock was pacing the living room, well walking as fast as his sometimes still hurting left foot would allow it. It was his first therapy session after their initial meeting yesterday. But yesterday they hadn’t talked about what happened to him. They had talked about her methods and about her dog. And Victor stayed with them all of the time. Now he was alone. Victor was in his bedroom, reading. Sherlock was nervous. Yes, he knew he needed this, this was his chance to get better, but he was anxious nevertheless. What would she asked of him? Should he describe what had happened to him? Should he show her the videos? The thought of the videos made him shudder.

 

A knock at the door interrupted his thought process. He slowly walked to the front door and opened it. Even before he greeted Doctor Rosewood her dog greeted him and made him smile.

 

“Well, she likes you.” Dr. Rosewood said with a smile.

 

They walked to the living room. Sherlock said on the sofa while Dr. Rosewood settled on the chair. Buffy lay down on the floor between them.

 

“Shall we start?” Dr. Rosewood said.

 

Sherlock nodded. “What do you want me to tell you?” He asked hastily.

 

“I want to talk about something we already talked about yesterday.” She spoke with a soft voice. “You said you want your life back. And you want to rebuild your mind palace.”

 

Sherlock nodded again.

 

“I want to clarify that. What do you mean when you want your life back?”

 

Sherlock bit his lips. He needed to think about the answer, but Dr. Rosewood didn’t push. “Take your time.”

 

“I want to forget what has happened. I don’t want to fall to my knees just because a door creaks. I don’t want to wake up with nightmares every night. I want to feel like myself again. And I want to go back to London, solve crimes, preferable with John, but I guess that will only be partly possible as he has a daughter now, my goddaughter.” Sherlock hesitated a moment. “If I am honest I want the life back that I had before I left to destroy Moriarty’s network, but I guess that is not possible, but I want to get as close as possible to that. I want to live my life like I have done it before, without the flashbacks and the nightmares.” He sighed.

 

Dr. Rosewood nodded. There was strange silence between them. Then Dr. Rosewood sighed. “You will never forget what has happened. Most of my patients want that, but that is not possible. And it isn’t something you should aim for.”

 

Sherlock looked at her. “Somehow I already anticipated that.” He said quietly.

 

“The aim of this therapy is not to help you forget, but to get you to the point where you can live with the trauma without the trauma dictating your life. But again, that doesn’t mean forgetting it. And it also will not mean a life without nightmares and flashbacks.” Sherlock looked at her and she could see the desperation in his eyes. “The therapy will be able to reduce the occurrence of nightmares and flashback significantly, in a way that will allow you to return to your life. But there might always be triggers that will bring back memories, a face that looks familiar, a voice, a room. Even more so than you will be exposed to crime scenes if you resume your work as a detective.”

 

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t know what to say. Should he say something? But then Dr. Rosewood resumed. “I always advise my patient to accept what has happened to them and not try to suppress or delete it. That will not work. Even a perfect therapy will not be able to make those things undone and from the information I got about your trauma so far, it is so massive that expecting to go back to be the person you were before will do more harm than good. You are a different person now. The trauma has changed you. The only thing you can do is to make it not dictate in which way it changed you and I will help you with that. Okay?”

 

Sherlock stared to the floor where the dog was dozing and nodded. He knew she was right. In the past days since Mycroft had brought them the files on the different therapist Sherlock had researched a lot about trauma therapy and what it could do. He knew it and the scientist in him was willing to except it, but there was also one part in him that still wished for the possibility to just delete everything.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by her once more. “And the same applies to your mind palace. I am not a specialist on the method of loci, but I researched a bit and I talked to a colleague yesterday evening. You said yesterday that your mind palace is in ruins and that you find it hard to rebuild it. Maybe this is not the time to rebuild it. Maybe you are not able to do it now. And maybe you should think to start a new one, one that symbolizes and holds everything you are now.”

 

Sherlock looked at her with a mixture of dismay and shock. “But I have built it for all my life. It contains everything that is important. I cannot abandon it like that.”

 

Dr. Rosewood smiled. “I don’t ask you to abandon it. I asked you to delay the repair work, so to speak. But since you need a mind palace as it is an important tool for your mind, I suggest building a new one, just beside your old one. Yesterday I asked you why we are here in Sussex and you said that you came here when you were on the run and that you came back after your time in the hospital. You said you like the peace and quiet here and that the garden reminds you of a place you always felt safe as a kid. Why don’t you use this cottage as a model for a new mind palace for the time now, for our therapy sessions, for your time here with Victor, for the visits of your goddaughter and your friends? And when the time is ripe you will rebuilt and reorganize your old mind palace.”

 

Sherlock said nothing, just thought about her suggestion, but his mind had already made a decision without him consciously taking part in making of that decision, but he saw a cottage similar to this and a garden that was a mixture of his old mind palace back garden and this one, in fact it was the same as he could see his old mind palace in the background. He smiled.

 

“Okay?” Dr. Rosewood asked.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

 

“Good. How about if we go out in the garden while we talk a bit more?” She asked and got up.

Sherlock got up too, grabbed his cane and followed her and the dog in the garden. Maybe this could really work, he thought.

 

 

 


	27. A different kind of therapy

The therapy was different then Sherlock had anticipated. It took quite some time until they really started to talk about what had happened. It frustrated him at the beginning, but Dr. Rosewood was well equipped to answer his impatience with scientific explanations. He had to be at least partially stable before they could really explore the trauma. Patience was never one of his strength, but he tried his best to follow her pace. And he was glad that she asked Victor to join them for the meditation practice. Sherlock had already tried meditation during his time away when dismantling Moriarty’s network. But back in Tibet the religious parts of the meditation practiced there have been quite confusing for him. The way Dr. Rosewood explained it suited him much better – a scientific approach to alter the brain, that’s how he thought about it, not so different to his mind palace, but serving a different purpose.

 

Later Sherlock realized she was right with her approach. They talked a lot about how he coped with everything, how his mind palace worked. They also talked about his childhood which caused some new kind of nightmares. When they finally started to work on what happened in the manor the memories were first so vivid that there were sessions that left him wrecked and worn afterwards and there were days were he definitely wanted to quit, but he also slowly recognized that things were getting better.

 

One of the reasons for staying put was Buffy. He loved the dog. She was so different to Redbeard, but reminded him of happy times nevertheless. And as it turned out Buffy was pregnant and Sherlock got Dr. Rosewood to promise him to call him when the little ones were about to be born. It was of course in the middle of the night when he got the call. He immediately got up and walked to the other bedroom to wake Victor.

 

“Vic? Wake up.” Sherlock said loudly and shook Victor’s shoulder.

 

“What is?” Victor slurred still half asleep.

 

“We need to go to Dr. Rosewood.” Sherlock explained

 

“Why? Are you not feeling well?” Victor asked, worry instantly displayed in his face.

 

“No.” Sherlock smiled. “Buffy will drop her puppies. I want to be there.”

 

Victor looked a little bit confused, but he got up without another question and only fifteen minutes later they sat in the kitchen of the little cottage Mycroft had rented for Dr. Rosewood and watched the birth of seven little black and white puppies. No one spoke a word and while Sherlock watched the dog and the puppies Victor watched Sherlock, amazed how the other man was in awe over the birth of some admittedly very cute puppies. Of course, Victor knew that Sherlock had a dog when he was a kid, but he also knew that it was a sad story that also involved Sherrinford and that ended with the death of said dog. And of course they got together because of Victor’s dog biting Sherlock who nevertheless adored the small terrier. When a year later Victor’s dog was hit by a car and died he had asked Sherlock if they should get another dog, but Sherlock had vividly said no.

 

When the excitement of the birth was over and Buffy and the puppies were dozing under a red warming lamp that Dr. Rosewood had placed over the box the sun already started to rise.

 

“I will make us some breakfast.” She said.

 

“That would be great.” Victor answered while Sherlock was still absorbed looking at the dogs.

 

Dr. Rosewood waited a moment and watched both men and smiled. A few minutes later they were having breakfast, even though Sherlock still looked towards the box every now and then.

 

“Five of them are already promised. I will keep one for myself.” Dr. Rosewood said with another smile. “They come from a very good line of border collies.” She got no reply and decided there was no way to wait for Sherlock to ask so she decided to do it for him. “Do you want the one left?”

 

Sherlock’s head spun around to face her. “You mean I could.” He stopped and looked at Victor as if asking for permission.

 

“Don’t look at me.” Victor said with a chuckle. “Your decision.”

 

Sherlock turned around again to look at the puppies. He swore to himself after Redbeard’s death that he would not get another dog. But now the situation was different. What had Dr. Rosewood told him a couple of days ago? He has to make choices for now and the near future and not let the past or the far away future cloud his mind and determine his decisions.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock said quietly. “I would very much like to have one of them.”

 

“Very good.” Dr. Rosewood smiled. “There is a condition.”

 

Sherlock frowned.

 

“First of all, you of course need to wait until they are old enough to be separated from her mom. And then there is the condition that you have to attend a dog grooming school with your dog. None of my dogs will end up disobedient and uneducated. And you know of course that border collies are very intelligent dogs and that you need to work with them so that they don’t get bored.”

 

“As the tree, so is the fruit.” Victor murmured and receiving a glare from Sherlock.

 

“Do you agree?” Dr. Rosewood asked, ignoring Victor’s comment even though she thought the same.

 

Sherlock just nodded.

 

“And of course you are very lucky that beside my work as a therapist I train dogs in my free time. So you can do the dog training with me.”

 

Sherlock looked at her and seemed like he wanted to ask a question, but wasn’t sure if he should. Dr. Rosewood sensed the topic and hastily added. “Of course that would be completely separated from our therapy sessions.”

 

“Okay.” Sherlock said, visibly relieved.

 

 

Over the next weeks Sherlock visited the puppies nearly every day and he very early made a decision which puppy he wanted. It was a male one, one of the smaller ones, his face half black, half white which gave him a funny expression. He called him Baxter as Dr. Rosewood wanted all the puppies to have names starting with a B.

 

 


	28. Decisions

Months passed and Sherlock felt that the time in Sussex was coming to an end. He was feeling much better, but he also knew that the cottage was a safe place and that he needed to be back in London, starting to work again in order to determine if he would be really okay. He decided to ask Dr. Rosewood about her assessment during the next session. When she came they went to the garden to let Buffy, Baxter and his sister Betty play in the garden.

 

“I have the feeling.” Sherlock started and paused for a moment. “I think it is time to leave Sussex.”

 

“You are ready?” Dr. Rosewood asked softly.

 

“I feel like I will only see in the real world if I am ready.” Sherlock replied.

 

“Okay.” She answered. “Then I want to talk about three things today.”

 

Sherlock turned to her to look her in the eyes.

 

“Your scars.”

 

“What about them?”

 

“I know everything that has happened to you. Beside yourself I would guess that I am the only person who knows that much. Yet, you still are careful to cover your scars whenever I am here. You also cover them in front of Victor even though he has seen you when those wounds were still fresh, had even treated them.”

 

Sherlock turned around again, staring into the sky, biting his lips. Yes, he hated the scars. They were a constant reminder, a clearly visible sign for everything that had happened to him. He especially hated to scars on his wrists as they reminded him on the way he was bound and helplessly had to endure whatever they wanted to do to him. He had asked Anthea to bring him only long-sleeve shirts to cover up the scars.

 

“You mean I should show them openly for anybody to see?” Sherlock asked bitterly.

 

“No.” She answered. “I just want you to think about how to view them yourself and how you will react if people see them. Because that will happen, not because you want it to happen or because you actively show them, but one day you will reveal them. It will surely happen by accident, probably when you are at work and are deep in thought and there will be people noticing them and they will react to them. They might ask questions or make assumptions.”

 

He hadn’t thought about that. The thought scared him. The idea that people at the Yard or a private client would see his wrists and that they would asked questions made him shudder.

 

“You don’t have to find an answer to that now.” She explained. “But I want you to think about it.”

 

Sherlock nodded. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

 

“There was more questions you wanted to ask me.” Sherlock said calmly.

 

“Yes.” Dr. Rosewood replied. “We already talked about it a while ago but decided to postpone the decision.”

 

“The videos.” Sherlock intervened.

 

“Yes, the videos. Have you made a decision what you want to do with them?” She asked.

 

Sherlock shook his head. No, he had always tried not to think about those videos. It was quite similar to the scars. He knew they were there, but be hated the idea and what they represented.

 

“Again, I don’t want you to make a definite decision, but I think you should at least think about what you want to do with them.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I will destroy them. Here. Shredder and burn them.”

 

“Is that a spontaneous decision?” Dr. Rosewood asked.

 

“Yes, but that isn’t bad, or is it?” Sherlock asked back.

 

“Not necessarily. Why do you want to destroy them?”

 

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. “I don’t want anybody to watch them and I will never watch them myself, so it doesn’t make any sense to keep them.”

 

Dr. Rosewood nodded. “Please think about both the scars and the videos until our next session.”

 

Thinking about the scars and the videos were among those things Sherlock could really do without but over the whole time with Dr. Rosewood he had learned that she knew what she was doing and so he guessed that she was right about this as well.

 

“And then there one more thing, one important thing you need to work out before you leave this place. “Dr. Rosewood said in a quite but determined voice.

 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Victor.” She said plainly.

 

“What about him?” Sherlock was confused by her just saying Victor’s name.

 

“That is the question. What about him?” She said with a smile. She got up from the bench and collected her dogs. When she returned to the bench she stopped in front of him. “Think about it, about him and what you want from him when you leave this here. Do you want him to join you, and if so as what?”

 

With those questions she left. Sherlock stayed outside on the bench and thought about Victor. He was quite sure what he wanted from Victor. He didn’t really need to further think about it. He wanted to have a relationship with Victor, like they used to have, but he hadn’t dared to ask him so far. There was a fear of rejection. Victor hadn’t made any move, quite the opposite. During the time with the worst nightmares and flashbacks Victor had stayed closed, they had shared a bed most nights and Victor has held him close. But when the nightmares subsided and Sherlock was getting better Victor started to keep a certain distance, the touches became less and less. Maybe he just stayed with him out of a feeling of obligation and then he would be happy to leave Sherlock once they would go back to London. And even if that wasn’t the case, Sherlock also knew that they couldn’t turn back the time. What if Victor wanted things from a relationship that Sherlock wasn’t able to give anymore?

 


	29. Declarations

Sherlock sat on the red sofa, legs up to the side, feet tucked beneath the cushions. Baxter was sleeping curled up on the floor in front of the sofa. Victor had taken his seat at the comfortable chair opposite. He was reading a book, trying to concentrate on the words, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Sherlock was getting better. Doctor Rosewood had been able to help him in a way Victor would have never been able to do. And the dog was part of that, surely not intended, but Baxter was somehow able to make Sherlock open up. Victor was happy for Sherlock. All those months since he had found him chained up in that torture chamber the real Sherlock seemed to be lost. First the physical injuries took priority and later the whole ordeal left Sherlock crumbling under the weight of cruel memories. And Victor had nearly lost him on that dreadful day, and even in the weeks that followed Victor still feared that Sherlock would commit suicide, hunted by those memories, by the pain he relived way too often. But now, things were better, now the old Sherlock was back, well with some changes of course. And now Victor dreaded the decision that Sherlock would make. Victor knew for sure that the quite peace, the companionship and the intimate closeness of their life in Sussex was only temporary. What he couldn’t fathom was what might come after this. Sherlock had already talked about London and about his work and how he hoped John will join him during cases again. But he hadn’t talked about if he wanted Victor to join him in London and Victor hadn’t dared to ask. Yes, they had been rather close in the past month, but also strangely distant. They had talked about all kind of stuff, about their respective work in the past, mostly about Sherlock’s cases, as Victor was reluctant to talk about what he had been up to as a feared that Sherlock would not approve, well he was sure he would not approve. And so they both settled for unsuspicious topics – the bees that belonged to the neighbouring farm, experiments they did, heated discussion on whether Bach or Händel composed the best baroque music. In the end, Victor had to admit that they haven’t talked that much. They had probably played more music together than they had talked. It was as if neither of them wanted to talk about them, afraid of the result. Victor let out a long breath he wasn’t aware he had held. He thought about the past month, about the time when he was able to hold Sherlock, to even kiss him. Of course, it weren’t real kisses, only chaste contacts, never on the mouth, never more than reassurance in moments of need, a kiss on the temple and a caress. And as much as Victor was happy that Sherlock was healing, he missed the closeness that was allowed as long as Sherlock needed it.

 

“You don’t read.” Sherlock’s voice cut through his thoughts.

 

“No, I don’t.” Victor replied and put the book away.

 

“Care to tell me what you were thinking?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I’d rather not.” Victor really didn’t want to make the first move. He would wait until Sherlock would say something.

 

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock murmured. For a few minutes they just looked at each other. Sherlock’s deducing gaze was unnerving, but Victor tried his best to endure it.  Then Sherlock decided to start. “Shall I tell you?” But he didn’t wait for a reply. “You think about what will happen when we will leave this place.”

 

Victor just nodded. God, Sherlock was always able to see right through him.

 

“Let me asked you a question. Why are you still here? Or better, why did you come searching for me in the first place? Why did you stay with me through all of this?” Sherlock asked, his voice was curious and a bit shy.

 

Victor snorted. He had expected a lot, this kind of questions were not among his scenarios. “You really need to ask those questions?”

 

“I am no mind reader.” Sherlock replied. “I threw you out. I pushed you away even when you came back and asked for a second chance. I was cruel and unforgiving. I said a lot of thing that were hurtful and vicious. You had no reason to care about me and we haven’t been in contact for over ten years.”

 

Victor snorted again and shook his head. “Okay. Since we do this with questions I will ask one as well. How many relationships do you think I had since you broke up with me?”

 

Sherlock shrugged a bit. “I don’t know.”

 

“None.” Victor said calmly. He shifted a bit in his chair and leaned forward.

 

“None?” Sherlock asked unbelieving.

 

“None. I had a couple of very short flings. I had sex with some of them. But I didn’t have a single affair that would deserve to be named a relationship. Can you deduce why?”

 

Sherlock just shook his head looking confused and curious at the same time.

 

“I never felt even something close to what I felt for you for any other person. I met attractive man, intelligent man, but no one brought out a feeling in me like you did. You were out of my life, far away and unreachable, but you were still there, in my heart, in my soul. So you asked why I searched for you. Because I still care, I still love you and I always will. I know you don’t reciprocate and that is okay. I don’t expect anything in return. I saved you because I couldn’t have lived with idea of you dying somewhere without me even trying to get you out. And I stayed with you because I needed to make sure that you are okay, because it would have killed me to see you broken.“ Victor stopped and looked down at the floor. Maybe he had said too much. He waited for the rejection, for the end of their time together. He needed all his strength not to let his emotion overwhelm him. He didn’t even notice that Sherlock had gotten up and was now standing right in front of him until he felt his fingers under his jaw making him to look up. Next he saw how Sherlock climbed on his lap and closed the distance and kissed him. A real kiss on the mouth and it was soft and tender, slow and sensuous. Sherlock led his hand wander through Victor’s hair and when his hands reached the nape he gently caressed the skin with his fingertips which cause a shiver travelling through Victor’s body. And as Sherlock noticed that reaction he smiled into the kiss.

 

“What makes you think that I don’t reciprocate?” Sherlock whispered when they stopped kissing.

 

Victor was paralyzed. Was that a mocking question or a reason for hope? He had many scenarios how Sherlock would end this, but not a single scenario in which Sherlock didn’t. He felt tears welling in his eyes and he looked down, not willing to show Sherlock how he felt. But Sherlock saw him anyway and smiled.

 

“Do know how many relationships I had since I broke up with you?” Sherlock asked.

 

Victor just shook his head still not daring to look at Sherlock.

 

“None.” Sherlock answered his own question. “When you were gone I didn’t want to let anybody so close to me again. That is why I didn’t take you back. I was too afraid of getting hurt again. I decided to scare away every person who came closer. It took me years to be able to have friends, not even a romantic relationship, but merely friends. And still I wouldn’t admit to myself that there were people who care for me and who I cared for as well. It took a John Watson to change that. He was the first person I really allowed to get closer, but we were never a couple and I am not quite sure if I would have pursued it when he would have been openly gay, maybe, I don’t know. And it took Moriarty and those two years for me to realize that I don’t want to be alone anymore. But when I came back John was even less an option then before and I was alone, so alone.”

 

Victor listened but he didn’t use the pause to say something. He just tried to process what Sherlock was telling him.

 

“And you know back there in that cell or when they tortured me I thought about you, about us, about the good times we had. Those years spent with you were the best years of my life. And at the same time they were so far away, so unrealistic that they helped me to endure the pain, the humiliation. You see you saved me in more than just one way. ”

 

Victor still looked down, so Sherlock cupped his face with both hands and forced him to look him in the eyes.

 

“Throwing you out was not a mistake, but not taking you back when I had the chance to do so, that was a mistake and I will not repeat it. I love you, Victor. And just to make sure there are no misunderstandings. If it would have been Mycroft who got me out and I would have searched for you and tried to get you back.” Sherlock said with a soft voice before he kissed Victor again, first on the mouth but then he moved to the cheeks kissing away the salty tears while Victor finally reacted and enveloped Sherlock in a tight hug.

 

They stayed this way for quite a while before Sherlock got up and led Victor into the bedroom. They both changed into pyjama bottoms and t-shirts and crawled under the duvet without speaking a single word. In the past few weeks Victor had mostly used one of the other two bedrooms and only slept in the same bed as Sherlock when the nightmares of the other man demanded it. But now they both lay on the side, close to each other, each man watching the other.

 

“I have no idea how to do this.” Sherlock said and Victor could see the sadness that crossed his face.

 

“What do you mean?” Victor asked confused.

 

“I am.” Sherlock paused. “I am not quite sure I will ever be able to be part of a sexual relationship.” He bit his lower lip, nervous about Victor’s reaction. When they were together sex had always played an important part, but now he wasn’t sure if he could handle sex without triggering those memories.

 

“And you think I care?”

 

“Of course you care, we always have.” But Victor didn’t let Sherlock finish the sentenced as he shushed him by putting his finger on Sherlock’s lip.

 

“Yes, we have been. We also have been a lot of different things in the past. We were young. Now we are very different people. We both have experienced things that changed us.” Victor paused for a moment. “If we want to try this again, us, then I think we need to kind of start from the scratch. We need to see how we can deal with the persons we now are.”

 

Sherlock looked at him, but didn’t say anything.

 

“I will give you all the time you need. I know enough of what they’ve done to you to realize that we cannot continue as if that and the last ten years had never happened. And quite honestly I don’t care if we never have sex again as long as I am part of your life.” Victor said calmly.

 

Sherlock got closer and kissed Victor. “Thank you.” He murmured and buried his head in the other man’s chest.

 

“Besides I can still wank in the shower and think about you if that is okay for you?” Victor asked with a smile and Sherlock could only chuckle as he enveloped Victor in a tight hug.

 

“Yes you can. And maybe one day I will be able to join in.” He whispered with a smile on his lips.

 

That evening they just kissed, long and deep kisses, before they curled together and fell asleep.

 


	30. First steps and further revelations

 

The next morning Sherlock woke up with Victor holding him close, still asleep. That in itself was not unusual, but Sherlock remembered their talk from last night and he smiled before he turned around to wake Victor with a kiss.

 

“Hey.” Victor murmured against the kiss drawing Sherlock in a tighter embrace and the kiss turned more passionate fast. Victor felt instantly aroused by Sherlock kissing him like that and a second later he had Sherlock turned to lie on his back with him on top. While they kissed his hand wandered over Sherlock’s body, along his arms. And just a second later Sherlock tensed under him, frozen, panic in his eyes.

 

Victor instantly withdrew his body and lay down on the side. “Sorry.” He mumbled watching his friend.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and didn’t move. “Don’t be sorry.” Sherlock he whispered. This was embarrassing. He has been intimate with Victor before, hell, they had sex all of the time in all kind of positions. This shouldn’t be something triggering bad memories, quite the opposite. But his body obviously had a different idea. “I am sorry. This shouldn’t be.” Sherlock sighed. “This shouldn’t be like that.”

 

“Hey, it is okay.” Victor said leaning in for another kiss, a soft and tender one.

 

Sherlock sighed again. “I want it to be like it once was.”

 

“Maybe that is the wrong approach.” Victor smiled.

 

“You sound like Dr. Rosewood.”Sherlock said with a frown.

 

“Do I?” Victor chuckled.

 

“Yeah, she said right at the beginning that I should not aim for getting things back the way they were.”

 

“Mmmhh.” Victor murmured. “Maybe she is right. We should take it slow, try to figure out what triggers you and what not.”

 

Sherlock nodded. He hated it, but he knew there was no other way.

 

“Maybe we should think about a safeword.” Victor suggested.

 

“A safeword?” Sherlock turned around to face Victor.

 

“Yes, a word you can say so that I will immediately stop.”

 

“I know what a safeword is. We had safewords back then.”

 

“Yes, but back then we only used them for certain stuff. But now you can use it whenever something we do triggers a bad memory.” Victor smiled.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

 

“What was it?”

 

“What was what?”

 

“You tensed, I noticed. Why?” Victor asked but Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. “Was it that I was I aroused?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. He thought about it for a moment. “No, it was your hands on my wrist. It felt like you were going to hold me down.”

 

Victor nodded and berated himself internally for not thinking about that before. Of course, Sherlock would not like to be held down in any way. “Okay.”

 

They lay side by side for a moment before Sherlock curled closer.

 

“We will learn.” Victor said.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock answered. “Maybe we should talk to Dr. Rosewood. I mean only if that is okay for you.”

 

“Of course.” Victor said turning to Sherlock for another tender kiss.

* * *

When they finally got out of bed Victor went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Sherlock followed him, but stopped at the sideboard and grabbed box with the CDs. He put them on the kitchen table. Victor looked at them and took a deep breath. Sherlock had told him that he wanted to destroy them and now seemed to be the time.

 

“Sit down. I have to get something.” He said as he left the kitchen. It was time to tell Sherlock about the USB stick.

 

Sherlock sipped his tea when Victor came back and sat down opposite to him. He put USB stick in the middle of the table.

 

“What is that?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I am not quite sure how much you remember of the day I got you out.” Victor started and he could see Sherlock tensing up, watching him with a mixture of fear and curiosity in his eyes. “They brought me into the chamber where they had tied you up. I told them that I would have a first session in an hour and then I demanded that they got rid of the collar and the shackles.” Sherlock nodded slightly. “I needed that hour to prepare, to look around the manor, to set the explosives and I also used it to hack into their system.” Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “It was quite easy, they had minimal protection. I downloaded quite a number files. No videos. I hacked into the video system as well but the videos were not on the servers of the manor. It seemed that they were always immediately transferred to Sherrinford’s headquarter. I wasn’t quite sure if downloading them would raise suspicion and it would have taken quite a while. And I definitely wanted to get you out of there as fast as possible.”

 

“So what is on that stick?” Sherlock asked with a raspy voice. He felt a lump in his throat

 

“Most files are about the clients. What they have done, how much they have paid, even names and contact details.” Victor said. “I think Sherrinford collected them in order to use them for blackmail.”

 

Sherlock gulped. He wanted to ask a question but Victor continued to talk.

 

“And there are files about you and the other ones. The material as they always used to call you.” Victor said with disdain and anger in his voice. They dehumanized the victims in that way and he hated it. In those files they were only numbers.

 

“So there is a file.” Sherlock couldn’t finish the question.

 

“There is a file about you, yes, about every client you had, about what they did to you and what they paid for it. There is also a file documenting the medical treatment you received. And there are files with quite explicit instructions that Sherrinford gave the guards about how you should be treated.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt nausea creeping up his stomach. Victor saw how Sherlock started to tremble. For a moment he regretted that he had brought the USB stick up, but he felt the need to be honest with Sherlock.

 

“I am so sorry. Maybe I should have told you earlier, but I always wanted to be sure that you will be able to handle this.” Victor said hastily, carefully placing his hand on top of Sherlock’s hand on the table which let the other man to instantly open his eyes and gaze at him.

 

“It is okay.” Sherlock said after a moment. “What do you want me to do with it?”

 

Victor shook his head. “This is not about what I want.”

 

“Why did you download those files?” Sherlock asked even though he had quite an idea what Victor wanted to do.

 

Victor took a deep breath. “That kind of business is disgusting. In order to get into the manor I needed to have a trustworthy contact. I found a client.” Victor bit his lip. “He was one of your first ones. The things he told me – albeit not quite by choice – I never thought that something like that was possible.”

 

“Is he dead?” Sherlock interrupted.

 

Victor hesitated a moment. “Yes.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Was it a fast death?”

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock nodded again. “And is that what you have planned for the other names on the list?”

 

Victor just looked at Sherlock. Silence stretched between them, but Sherlock just looked him in the eyes. “I wasn’t sure you would be.” Victor started “Yesterday was surprise.” Sherlock frowned. “As I said I didn’t expect you to reciprocate my feelings. I thought that when we would leave Sussex we would go separate ways again.” Sherlock’s frown deepened and he wanted to say something, but Victor shushed him with his upheld hand. “I am happy I miscalculated, very happy, but if I would have been right, then yes, I would have visited every one of that list.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Yes, he knew what Victor had been doing in the past, for the MI6 as well as later on as a freelancer. He knew and he had seen in the manor that Victor had nearly no qualms when he needed to kill people to complete his mission, but a vigilante to revenge him, that thought felt strange.

 

“And now? Now that we are together?” Sherlock finally asked.

 

“Now. It is your decision what to do with these files.” Victor said.

 

Sherlock nodded. “One more decision.” He snorted. “I am not very good with this kind of decisions.”

 

“You don’t need to make a decision, right now.” Victor said.

 

Sherlock took the USB stick and put it on top of the CDs. “I will think about it.”

 

 


	31. One more step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dear readers! Thank you for still reading. There are still some chapters in draft as I want to tell how Sherlock will cope back in London. And somehow this story becomes longer and longer as my brain comes up with new ideas every time I work on the draft.  
> And I feel the need to add an explanation as some readers seemed to be confused by my way of tagging. I added a pairing tag now as some readers feeled betrayed by the development of the story. Sorry, that was not my intention. I tag in regards of my personal preferences and with long stories I like to be surprised, so I rather prefer less tags and find out things as I read the story, just like with books I want a blurb to draw me in but not to tell me too much. Sorry if that doesn't appeal to some people.  
> I had no particular pairing in mind when I started the story, but I guess I should have added the pairing tag when I made the decision that there would be a pairing. I simply forgot, sorry. I mended that now.

 

The next time Dr. Rosewood came to the cottage Sherlock decided to talk to her alone as usual and later on he would ask Victor to join them, if she agreed.

 

“So you did talk to Victor.” Dr. Rosewood smiled.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled but he was also a little bit shocked that she could obviously read him so well.

 

“I am glad you are together. Finally.” She said with a broad smile.

 

“How do you know that we are together?” Sherlock frowned.

 

“Please, Sherlock. You are not the only one he can observe things. And my specialties are humans and their behaviour.” Dr. Rosewood smiled brightly. “And you two were so clearly in love that a blind person could see that. And what I saw was that you both didn’t see it.”

 

Sherlock nodded and thought about her words. “Yes, we talked about it yesterday and I guess you could say we are together.”

 

“I hear a but in there.”

 

“I am not quite sure I will be able to.” Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. God, why was this so difficult.

 

“You think sex might be a problem.” Dr. Rosewood said with a knowing smile.

 

Sherlock looked away. Why the hell was he embarrassed talking about this. He had told this woman about how he was raped over and over again and that was less difficult.

 

“This morning.” He started. “He just put his hands on my wrists and I.”

 

“You had a flashback?”

 

“No, not even that, but.” He bit his lip and stared through the window to the fields.

 

“It is okay.” She said carefully placing her hand on his arm, nudging him to look at her. “It is okay to react like that. Didn’t he understand that?”

 

“No, he did, he did.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “He understands everything and he says that it isn’t important for him whether we have sex or not. He even suggested using a safeword. It is just.”

 

“It is just that you think that will change.”

 

“Yes. It will. When we have been together in the past, sex was very important and.” He stopped again.

 

Dr. Rosewood didn’t say anything. The pause stretched between them for a while.

 

“You still don’t see it.”

 

“What?” Sherlock said and frowned. This was truly frustrating.

 

“This man had risked his life to rescue you, he had stayed with you during your stay in hospital, he had taken you here so that you didn’t have to go to another hospital because he knows that you despise hospitals and he had threatened your brother that he would rather kill both you and himself than letting you be sectioned because he knew that that would be the worst thing that could happen to you.” She paused for a moment to let Sherlock catch up with what she just said. “This man loves you and believe me any person on this planet would be glad to have somebody who has such deep and unconditional feeling for them. So you really think that sex will be a crucial factor in your relationship?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I am an idiot, right?”

 

“A bit of an idiot, maybe.” She answered. “But let me ask you something. Do you want to have sex with him? I mean this morning. Was it just him initiating it?”

 

“No, we.” Sherlock huffed. “We started kissing and it just happened and it was just when I felt his hands on my wrists that I couldn’t.” He stopped again. He felt a bit like a teenager talking to his mother about sex.

 

“I think a safeword is a good idea.” Dr. Rosewood explained. “And just take it slow. After what you experienced, after being raped, it will not be easy to be intimate with someone, even when you love and trust that someone.”

 

Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath.

 

“You remember how we talked about expectations in the meditation sessions. You are projecting expectations into Victor and fear that you will not be able to fulfil them. And even if he tells you that his expectations are not that way you don’t believe him. Your projections are so strong and they are always leading you to the assumption that you will fail. Try to let them go. Try to accept the things the way they are now. You are not the man you used to be and you don’t need to be. And in case of Victor and you: Just try to enjoy that he loves you and take small steps.”

 

Sherlock nodded again. It sounded so easy the way she explained it. Just as he pondered about his projections and about small steps Victor came in with a tea tray.

 

“Can I join you?” He asked shyly.

 

“Sure. I guess you know what we talked about.” Dr. Rosewood said.

 

“Yes, well we talked about it this morning.” Victor agreed.

 

He sat down beside Sherlock and took his hand between his hands. For the next hour they talked about their relationship in the past and what they wanted now and listened to Dr. Rosewood advice. They agreed on a safeword just be sure not to trigger a major flashback. And they talked about leaving the cottage, leaving Sussex. They accepted Dr. Rosewood advice to stay in Sussex for at least a couple of weeks to give their relationship some time to develop and settle before throwing themselves into a new environment. And they talked about the USB stick and the videos, a topic that let Sherlock tense up immediately. He still had no idea what to do about them. His initial thought to destroy the videos was revised with the knowledge about the USB stick and its content. He had taken a first look at the files after breakfast and they were quite revealing. While his brother was locked up and the guards and the doctor were surely dead, killed by Victor, the clients still led their normal life. And maybe they even found a new establishment to fulfil their perverted urges. The USB stick in combination with the videos would give him the opportunity to prosecute those clients. That idea felt good but terrifying all the same as it would mean to let people, policemen, prosecutors and judges, see those videos, read the files. And maybe he would be needed in court to make a statement, facing the people who had tortured him. This thought made him shudder. In the end Dr. Rosewood assured him that he can still take his time to think about it. But something in him had already made the decision.

 

 


	32. The right thing

 

It was their last weekend in Sussex and Sherlock had asked Mycroft to come over for a visit. He had made his decision about the videos and the USB stick. He would give both to his brother so that the clients would be prosecuted. Sherlock sat on the sofa. He had just heard Mycroft’s car arriving in front. Victor got up and walked to the door.

 

“Hello Sherlock, I see you have already packed quite a bit.” Mycroft commented on the boxes that were littering the living room.

 

“Well, we will leave in two days.” Victor explained and with one look at Sherlock he turned around. “I will make some tea.”

 

And then Mycroft saw the CDs on the coffee table and on top of them a USB Stick. He felt a wave of guilt washing across him.

 

“Ah, I see you have noticed the reason for you visit.” Sherlock said watching his brother before he added. “You feel guilty.”

 

Mycroft just nodded.

 

“Don’t.” Sherlock said.

 

“Don’t? How can I not feel guilty? There were so many moments when I could have done things differently and none of that would have ever happened. Back when you and him were at university. Later on, I could have searched for him. God, I should have know it was him and I should have never let them send you back there.”

 

“Myc. Don’t.” Sherlock said softly. “You know what I’ve learned in therapy. That it is useless to dwell too long about the past that you cannot change. You can only learn from it and use it to create a now that is worth living.”

 

Mycroft snorted quietly and nodded. He wished it were so easy, but even though his brother looked healthy and happy the memories of him in hospital and the memories of the videos on those CDs were way too vivid in his mind.

 

“Sit down.” Sherlock said. “There is something I want to discuss.”

 

With a sigh Mycroft sat down his eyes lingering on the CDs. “You still have them?” Mycroft asked. “I thought that you would destroy them.”

 

“Yes, that was my first idea, but then things changed.” Sherlock said.

 

“The USB stick.” Mycroft said. “What is on there?”

 

“Files from the manor.” Victor said stepping into the living room. He sat down the tea tray beside the CDs and starting pouring tea for each of them. “I hacked their system before we fled.”

 

Mycroft looked at Victor. That was not what he had expected. Victor seemed to sense the question on Mycroft’s mind.

 

“The files contain information on the victims – not much – and on the clients – quite a lot, who they were, what they have done in the manor and how much they have paid for it.” Victor explained his hand resting on Sherlock’s thigh. He knew that the decision what to do with the files had not been an easy one for Sherlock. He wanted to assure him that it was the right decision.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked at his brother. “There are files about you as well?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” He said curtly.

 

No one said a word. Mycroft had an idea what Sherlock wanted, but he waited for him to say it, but the silence stretched on, so he finally decided to ask. “What do you want me to do with it?”

 

Silence again. Sherlock bit his lip; he nodded imperceptible over and over again. Several times he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. It took a while until he finally was able to phrase what he wanted to say and while he spoke he wasn’t sure if that was really what he wanted. “I want this people to not find another establishment where they can fulfil their perverted urges.” His voice was low and urgent.

 

Mycroft looked at him and waited. He had quite an idea what he wanted to do with those people and it would surely not be nice, but he still wasn’t sure that Sherlock had the same thing in mind.

 

Sherlock watched his brother and he knew he needed to elaborate his wishes. “I know what you have in mind, but that wouldn’t be right.”

 

“Would it not? After everything they have done to you?” Mycroft said, trying to retain his anger.

 

Sherlock remained calm. He had thought about this long enough. It would be an easy solution to let his brother revenge him. To do to those people what they had done to him. And Sherlock had no doubt that Mycroft was capable of finding those people and then let them repay every pain they have caused him before he would finally make them disappear. And this thought was satisfying, even for Sherlock. But in the end it would make him not better than them. It wasn’t what he wanted.

 

“I have been working on the side of the law for so long and I intend to continue to do so when I am back in London. Even when I was destroying Moriarty’s network I only resorted to kill his associates when I needed to do so in order to safe my life and the life of those I care for. But as you know full well I found ways to have most of them prosecuted.” Sherlock stopped for a moment. “Killing those clients, torturing them before they will die, that is not what I want. It will not undo what they did to me.”

 

Mycroft was still agitated, but he would accept his brother’s wishes. “So you want them prosecuted?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock said and he let out a long breath.

 

“Do you want your files to be part of that?” Mycroft asked.

 

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. That was the decisive question. “I don’t know, to be honest.” He finally answered and what he said was true. “It would be great if the files on me would not be needed, but I am well aware that without those files and especially without those videos it might be difficult to make investigating authorities believe that the manor existed and what has happened there.” Sherlock led out a deep breath.

 

Mycroft nodded. “I will do everything to keep you out of it, but I may use your files and the videos as an argument to convince people, but as I told you back when I gave you the videos we found videos of the other victims in Ford’s headquarter.”

 

They sat in silence for a while. None of the three men wanted to say something.  Sherlock thought about the decision he had just made and what it might mean for his future. It frightened him, but it felt right nevertheless. The face of the blonde woman crossed his thought. Her eyes just as she had looked at him before she died. Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing for a couple of breaths just as he had learned it in therapy. He needed to let go of those memories, but they led him to another thought.

 

“There is one more thing.” Sherlock started. “The files contain some information on the.” He stopped. He nearly had said material, like they have been always been called. Material. Sherlock shuddered, he didn’t want to use that word and it nearly happened and now he was unable to give them a precise label. He didn’t want to say victims either. He took another deep breath and felt Victor’s hand squeezing his leg. He looked at Mycroft who patiently waited for him to resume. “They always called us material and you will see in the files that that is what every one of us was referred to, material, numbered, used and discarded.” Sherlock felt how Victor tensed up beside him and he saw the anger in his brother’s face. “But we were humans and if it is possible – and I am not very confident that it is possible. I mean I looked at those files myself, but if it is possible to find names for only a few of those numbers.” Sherlock stopped again. “The families have a right to know. You thought I was dead.” He saw guilt flashing over his brother’s feature. “If I would have died there it would not have changed much. You have already mourned me. But some of those families surely still hope.” Sherlock stopped. His thoughts again wandered off to the blonde woman.

 

“Sure. I will do what I can.” Mycroft said, his voice raspy from the lump he felt in his throat.

 

“Among those people, there was a woman. She died some days between Sherrinford’s visit and my rescue. If you find out something about her please tell me.” Sherlock said and as he saw Mycroft confusion he continued. “We had the same client that day. She was killed in front of me. There surely is a video of that.” Sherlock snorted bitterly. “She was the only other one I saw in those three months.  I want to know her name.”

 

Mycroft nodded. He couldn’t really understand what Sherlock wanted but then he couldn’t really re-enact what Sherlock had experienced. He had watched some of the videos, of course, but he had never been in a situation where he wasn’t in control and just thinking about what kind of loss of control Sherlock have experienced in addition to the pain and humiliation, he couldn’t fathom what that would do to him.

 

They sat in silence for quite a while. Victor made another pot of tea and they sat in silenced and drunk tea. The scale of Sherlock’s decision was lingering between them and each man was deep in thought about it.

 

When Mycroft finally left Sherlock and Victor silently moved to the bedroom. Lying close to each other Victor kissed Sherlock gently. He felt the inner turmoil of his loved one.

 

“Are you okay?” He asked softly.

 

“Hmmm.” Sherlock murmured. “You think it is the wrong decision, don’t you?”

 

“No.” Victor shook his head. “It is not that it is the wrong decision, quite the opposite. It is just that I know that I would not be able to do it if I would have been in your place. It is a brave decision.”

 

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. “Maybe you would if you really would have been in my place.” Sherlock paused. “Can we change the topic?”

 

Victor nodded and gave him another soft kiss and let Sherlock curl close to him.

 


	33. Back in the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something fluffy inbetween

“Oh, a case, a case.” Sherlock jumped up, beaming. They had been back in London for three weeks. Back in Baker Street. As Mycroft had been unwilling to deal with Sherlock’s belongings after the funeral he had just continued to pay the rent to Mrs. Hudson. And while it was nice to breathe in the city again, to walk through Regent Park with Baxter, to find out what has changed and of course to settle down in Baker Street again, at a certain point Sherlock became restless. He had told Lestrade that he would take cases again and now there was one. Without a second thought he took his coat and put it on, just about to leave when he turned around. Baxter was waiting by his side. “Are you coming?”

 

Victor just smiled from the sofa and shook his head. “No.”

 

“Why not? The case sounds like a six at least.”

 

Victor chuckled and remembered how back in Sussex Sherlock had explained his grading system for cases to him.

 

“Call John. I am sure he will be gladly joining you. If I remember correctly this week he has only morning shifts.”

 

Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking confused.

 

“Will, you love doing cases with John and today would be a good opportunity to do so. Besides it will be your first case with Lestrade since we came back to London and I would guess that it will be better to have you and John there, not to confuse the Yarders with a new face.”

 

Sherlock still looked confused and was just about to say something when Victor talked again.

“I am quite sure I would be barely able to not kiss you when you let out your brilliant deductions and that would be rather awkward on a crime scene.” Sherlock chuckled at the thought of Sally’s shocked face if she would witness that.

“Besides I have other things to do?”

 

“Things to do?” Sherlock asked. “What things?”

 

“I will go out and buy myself a nice comfortable chair to put in front of the fireplace. And I will look for a dining table as the kitchen table is your workbench and looks like it.” Victor said with a wink. They had agreed that Sherlock would be allowed to use the kitchen for his experiments as long as they will have a decent dining table in the living room. And as they also had agreed to put John’s chair in the upstairs bedroom there was a chair missing in front of the fireplace.

 

Sherlock smiled and marvelled about how he had earned to have Victor as his partner.

 

“Okay. I will text John.” With that Sherlock was about to leave.

 

“Take Bax with you.” Victor shouted. “I think he will rather accompany you to a crime scene than wait for me in front of every furniture store in London.”

 

Sherlock turned around and smiled. “Come Bax, let’s solve a crime. I will text you when I know when I will be back.” He quickly walked up to Victor and gave him a kiss. “I love you.” He whispered and turned around and walked out.

 

  

* * *

 

 

His cab reached the crime scene and in front of the house he could already see John talking to one of the constables. Sherlock smiled. It was just like in old times. He walked up to them, feeling a strange kind of déjà vu, just reversed. On their first crime scene John used a cane and limped and now he needed a cane. His foot was not as bad as it was at the beginning. He didn’t use the cane at home anymore, only when he went out and knew that he had to walk longer distances or stairs.

When he reached John and the constable John lifted the police tape to let him through.

 

“Evening.” Sherlock said. “Constable, can I leave my dog with you. Baxter is very well trained. He will sit by your side until I come back.”

 

“Sure, Mr. Holmes.” The constable answered.

 

“Thank you.” Sherlock said . “Let’s get inside, John.”

 

John just smiled in way that irritated Sherlock a bit. “What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Sherlock stopped. “What?”

 

“You asked nicely and you said thank you.” John smirked.

 

“I did. But I don’t get why that makes you smile?” Sherlock frowned.

 

John just let him stand where he was and walked on.

  

* * *

The case turned out to be a mere four and Sherlock just needed an hour on the crime scene to deduce the two potential culprits. Nevertheless, Sherlock felt great when he and John left the building. It was his first case since he was back in London and it felt so good and normal. John was by his side, Lestrade was his usual self and the new forensic officer was less annoying than Anderson. And even when it turned out to be a less interesting case than expected, Sherlock had enjoyed it.

 

When he and John walked down to the constable who should have taken care of Baxter Sherlock stopped for a moment to take in the scene. There was Sally playing a game of fetch with his dog on the front lawn, both Sally and Baxter were visibly happy.

 

“Do you think this is the correct behaviour on a crime scene, Donovan?” Sherlock yelled with an amused smile. She had scolded him more than once for his inappropriate behaviour and now he saw an opportunity to do it in return.

 

Sally stopped the game and attached the leach to Baxter’s collar before she walked up to them. “The dog was bored.”

 

“As the tree, so is the fruit.” John said with a smirk which gained him an indignant look from Sherlock and a confused expression from Sally.

 

Sherlock turned to Sally. “Well, if he was bored than thank you for your entertainment.” And with that Sherlock was about to grab the leash from her hand.

 

“Wait a moment.” Sally said and took a step back. “What do you think you are doing?”

 

“What I think I am doing?” Sherlock said confused. “I solved the crime for you and now I will take my dog and walk home, well, John and I will grab something to eat I guess and then I will head home.”

 

“Your dog?” Sally asked astonished.

 

“Yes, Sally, my dog.” Sherlock answered and held out his hand for the leash. “Bax, come on.” And as the dog, who had so far watched the talk of the humans like a referee at a tennis match, walked up to Sherlock Sally handed over the leash reluctantly.

 

“Didn’t think you would be a dog person.” Sally murmured.

 

Sherlock frowned. “What then? A cat person? Sally, really, you need to learn to observe.” With that he left the scene, Baxter happily following him close by.

 

John smiled at Sally. “He definitely is a dog person.” And with that he started to jog in order to catch up with Sherlock.

 

 

 


	34. Unexpected behavior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for letting you wait, dear readers, but as you might have seen I work on another short story for Mid0nz’s Mr. Blue Skull Fan Creations Contest (read it here [**Mending something broken**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4541793)), so the next chapter for this story had to wait a bit.

 

Normality. Sherlock couldn’t believe that he was back to that kind of normality, well, not the kind of normal he had before, but a lot of things were like they have been. He had cases, private ones and those for the Scotland Yard. John accompanied him to cases, not so much as before, but often enough for Sherlock to enjoy it without feeling abandoned when John had to work or take care of his family. Mostly Sherlock called John when he thought the case was a seven or above. That’s why he was there when it happened. It was suppose to be a homicide case, but it turned into so much more.

The victim was a young woman, a Jane Doe, with no name, not being reported missing, no witnesses. Sherlock and John arrived at the scene which was an abandoned industrial site at the outskirts of London. The building was the only one left on the whole site. It was a small brick house that only consisted of three small rooms. All windows were smashed. Sherlock took in the scene like every other and he watched how John looked at the body and took a step closer. When Sherlock careful lifted her arm and pushed up the sleeve he saw it and it made him gasp for air. The scars on her wrist looked so similar to his own, not as bad, but still bad enough and some fresh abrasions were there as well. John looked up to him, but said nothing.

 

“Take a look at her ankles.” Sherlock said, trying to remain calm.

 

John moved to reveal similar scars on both ankles of the young woman. Sherlock just nodded.

 

“You found something?” Lestrade asked.

 

“She has been restraint, both at the wrists and the ankles. The scars and the degree of healing show us that that wasn’t a one off thing. It happened frequently.” Sherlock answered rapidly.

 

Sally looked at the victim. “So she has been abused over longer period of time?”

 

“Yes.” John said as he revealed bruised on her arms.

 

The cardigan the girl was wearing caught Sherlock’s eye and as he took a closer look and then he pushed it away to see her upper arm.

 

“But we haven’t any missing person reported that fits her description.” Sally said.

 

“You are not looking for a missing person from here.” Sherlock intervened.

 

“We not only looked for missing persons here in London, we looked up that database for all of Britain.” Sally said with a hint of anger.

 

“She is Russian. Her clothes are Russian plus she has a smallpox vaccination scar.” Sherlock explained. “I think we are looking at a case of human trafficking. Her death was probably an accident and they needed to get rid of her body. She was not killed here.” He took a deep breath. “We need to wait for the autopsy and I am quite sure we will find interesting evidence underneath her fingernails. As they had to dispose her body fast, they didn’t take care of cleaning her nails.”

 

With that Sherlock quickly left the house. He needed fresh air as he felt unwanted images flooding his mind, the blonde woman who was tortured to death in front of his eyes appeared vividly in his mind. Once outside he took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. He didn’t notice that John was standing beside him until he heard him speaking.

 

“You’re okay?”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed at his friend. For a moment he wanted to brush over John’s worries like he would have done it in the past. But it didn’t seem right.

 

“It’s okay. I just need a moment.” Sherlock said quietly and after a moment he added. “Too much images.”

 

John just nodded and stood by his side. He didn’t press him for details. Sherlock smiled a bit. He was grateful that his friend reacted in that way.

* * *

It was later at night when the evidence let them to a large warehouse in the harbour of London. It was still in use and the evidence suggested that the company utilized it to cover up the human trafficking. When the police stormed the building they found only a few men and one terrified young woman in the windowed cubical office at the end of the large hall. The woman used the tumult of the raid to grab a gun. She was clearly a victim of human trafficking but she obviously didn’t recognize the police officers as her rescuers. And as she didn’t seem to understand English either. She sat in the corner of the room unwilling to let go of the gun.

 

“Out. All of you.” Sherlock barked at the Yarders receiving angry glares in return. Sherlock turned around to face Lestrade. “Let me try.” He said calmly.

 

Lestrade nodded. “Out, all of you.” And while nobody seemed to be happy about that order, they all followed it.

 

When they had left the office they lined up in front of the windows of the office and watched how Sherlock took Baxter and carefully approached the young woman. A few steps away he unleashed his dog and sent him towards the girl. The Yarders couldn’t see Sherlock’s smile as Baxter approached the girl and clearly broke the ice. And they also didn’t understand the words he spoke. Lestrade thought it was some Slavic language. So they just watched and stared as Sherlock sat down on the floor beside the girl not even trying to grasp the gun out of her hands. Instead he shed his jacket and started to unbutton the cuffs of his white shirt and slowly pushing up the sleeves.

 

“What is he doing?” Sally asked confused, but she didn’t receive an answer from her colleagues.

 

Instead John Watson cleared this throat. “Building up trust.”

 

She looked at the doctor, more confused than before. Her eyes wondered back to Sherlock and the girl. Sherlock was talking and the girl was nodding every now and then her hands reached out to his wrists. Carefully she led her fingers wander up and down the right wrist. Finally the girl looked up and faced Sherlock und he gave her a small smile. Then she handed him the gun. In front of the window sighs of relieve could be heard.

 

“Should we go in?” Sally asked.

 

“No.” Lestrade answered. “We will wait until he gives us a sign.”

 

And so they waited and watched as Sherlock pulled down the sleeves again, buttoning the cuffs while talking to the girl. And then he took the girl who had started to sob in his arms. For minutes nothing happened. Sherlock just held the girl and let her cry. Then he looked up clearly fixing John with his eyes and he gave a hardly visible nod.

 

“I will go in now.” John said and walked past the Yarders into the office.

  

* * *

When Sherlock closed the front door of 221b he leaned against the wall for just a moment and took a deep breath before he walked up the seventeen steps to his flat. He expected Victor to be asleep in bed already, but he found him dozing on the sofa. He woke up just when Sherlock closed the door.

 

“Hi Will.” Victor said with a sleepy voice.

 

Sherlock just needed one look to know why Victor had waited on the sofa.

 

“John has phoned you.”

 

Victor smiled as he got up and enveloped Sherlock in a hug.

 

“Yes, he has and I am glad he told me.” Victor said softly.

 

Sherlock just leaned against Victor and let his head rest on his shoulder. He didn’t want to talk about it and he hoped that Victor wouldn’t ask.

 

“Let’s get to bed. I am tired and you look tired as well.”

 

With that Victor led him to their bedroom and after they shed their close the crawled under the duvet. They didn’t talk, just kissed for a bit. Victor fell asleep first and was quietly snoring. Sherlock sighed. He was still surprised how well Victor knew what he needed. With that thought he also fell asleep, closely curled around the other man. Later at night the nightmare came that Sherlock knew was inevitable after the day’s events. He was back in the torture chamber, chained to a chair. The dead human trafficking victim was chained to a chair opposite. Her lifeless body slumped down. He wanted to say something when electric shocks started running through his body and his brother appeared beside him pushing the button for more shocks. Sherlock could do nothing else but scream.

 

“Will, wake up. It is just a nightmare.” Victor said.

 

Sherlock slowly calmed down while he curled closer to Victor. He started sobbing.

 

“It is okay. You are safe.” Victor murmured.

 

And that was it. He was safe. He knew he was safe. It had been a year ago. He was in London now. He was in Victor’s arms. Victor’s soothing words, kisses and touches calmed him down, grounded him. Yes, he was safe.

 


	35. The wrong fear

Everything settled down in a kind of routine. Sherlock did the cases for the Yard and he even had a few private cases even though his blog was long gone and John has updated the last time before he was shot by Mary. Sherlock thought about reviving his own blog to gain more private clients. In the end he grudgingly followed John’s suggestion to set up a joint blog as John, Mary and Victor reminded him that he never had a lot of visitors on his own blog. The joint blog consisted of John blogging about the cases and Sherlock writing his scientific articles. And Sherlock had to admit that his friends were right, even though he would never openly tell them.

 

Life was getting better every day, but there was something nagging in the back of Sherlock’s mind. While Victor seemed to be content being at home, subtly changing things in the flat, Sherlock couldn’t believe that that would be a lasting state. And it worried him. He feared the moment when Victor would become bored. He was a man of action and he certainly would want to return to his previous line of work. And some insecure voice in Sherlock’s mind told him that Victor would then leave him. So Sherlock started to watch Victor, trying to deduce when that would happen.

 

* * *

 

It was a boring day, no cases in sight. Victor was out, shopping groceries as he had said, but Sherlock knew that was only half of the truth. It was the first time he had seen Victor lying to him since they were back together and it unsettled Sherlock. He lay down on the sofa and waited. He forced himself to stay calm as Victor entered the flat. He didn’t move when Victor went to the kitchen and placed the shopping on the table, sorting the things he had bought into the cupboard and the fridge. Sherlock felt tense. Something was off and he didn’t want to find out, or did he? He heard Victor filling the kettle with water. When Victor walked into the living room he placed a steaming mug in front of Sherlock.

 

“You are watching me.” Victor said before he settled down in his chair.

 

Sherlock got up, took his mug and walked over to his chair.

 

“You are watching me like I am a bomb about to explode.” Victor said raising an eyebrow.

 

Sherlock gulped. There was no way to avoid this talk now so he might as well be straight forward. “You are getting bored.”

 

“A bit, yeah.” Victor said, his body tense, waiting.

 

Sherlock nodded and looked away while he whispered. “You will leave.”

 

Victor shook his head and looked confused. “Why should I leave?”

 

“Because you are bored.” Sherlock answered with a sigh. “I knew it would happen.”

 

“That would hardly be a reason. Besides I am surly not bored of you. But you are right, I am getting bored and I need a job. I am not really house husband material.” Victor bit his lip and looked down at the floor.

 

Sherlock watched him intently when he realized it. “You already have a job offer, but you are afraid to bring it up.” He paused for a moment as Victor had looked up. “You think I disapprove it.”

 

“God, Will, as much as I love your ability to deduce everything, sometimes it is really scary.” Victor said and smiled a bit sadly. After a small pause he added. “And of course you are right. I have a job offer and I am quite sure you will disapprove it.”

 

Sherlock frowned. “Just tell me.”

 

“You are not the only Holmes who deduced that I am getting bored.” Victor said very quietly.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Mycroft offered you a job.”

 

“Yes, but it is a different job.” Victor said hastily. “It is not like the last time. And I will not take it if you oppose.”

 

Sherlock wanted to jump up and scream, but he realized that the last time he reacted that way he had lost Victor. “What kind of job is it?” He asked calmly.

 

Victor looked surprised, but then he explained. “There is a position free in the MI5, a liaison officer to coordinate between the MI5, the MI6 and Scotland Yard in cases that need cooperation.”

 

Now Sherlock was surprised. “An office job?”

 

“Well, not all the time. I might go out on cases as well. We might even end up on the same cases.” Victor said with a small smile.

 

Sherlock could sense Victor’s enthusiasm and he couldn’t help it he had to smile too. How could he deny Victor the opportunity to do something he would enjoy? “That would be fun. Sally would surely get a heart attack.”

 

They both smiled and just watched each other.  

 

“So, it would be okay for you?” Victor asked shyly.

 

“Of course.” Sherlock replied. “I was afraid you would leave me.” He whispered.

 

Victor put his tea aside and got up only to climb on Sherlock’s lap. “I will never leave you, ever again.” He leant down to kiss Sherlock who enthusiastically kissed back. His hands started to find its way under Sherlock’s t-shirt.

 

“Bedroom?” Sherlock whispered in a low voice.

 

“Definitely.” Victor smiled into the kiss and got up, tugging Sherlock along.

 

 

 

 


	36. Triggers

Sherlock couldn’t quite explain it, but he knew when he got up in the morning that this would be a bad day. Maybe it was because he woke up alone as Victor had left London the day before in order to attend a meeting in Dublin. Sherlock realized that it was the first time that Victor has left him since the rescue. Victor himself didn’t want to go and the reluctance he had shown was quite endearing. It had stirred a warm feeling in Sherlock’s heart when they said goodbye yesterday afternoon. But now as he woke up in their bed alone he felt a bit lost. Sentiment. When did he become so sentimental? He looked at the alarm clock and groaned. He was still tired as his latest case had kept him awake for nearly a week, but he had promised Lestrade to help with some paperwork for that case and so he slowly got up.

 

* * *

 

 

His gut feeling that this would not be a good day fulfilled itself when he was walking through the open space office at the Yard on the way to Lestrade’s closed office. Sally and Dimmock were sitting on the desk of another sergeant whose name he couldn’t remember, Gregson or so. When he came close he could see them all watching him in a way that told Sherlock that they were talking about him.

 

“Hey Sherlock.” Sally called out and got up to block his way.

 

“Hi Sally.” Sherlock answered curtly. Sally hadn’t called him freak since he was back, but Sherlock had the feeling it was more due to an order by Lestrade than on her own accounts.

 

“I have a question for you.” Sally stated.

 

“Go ahead.” Sherlock replied even though he wanted to just walk past her, but as Lestrade had probably asked Sally to be nice to him, he had also asked Sherlock to be nice to her.

 

“In the warehouse, the case of human trafficking. What did you say to the woman?” Sally asked.

 

Sherlock froze, just fixing her with her eyes. It took a moment before he realized that he needed to give her some kind of answer. “I calmed her down. Told her that she was safe.”

 

“Yeah, we got that.” Dimmock said.

 

Sherlock shrugged. What more was there to say.

 

“But you showed her your arms.” Sally said and at the same time she grabbed Sherlock’s left wrist and pushed the sleeve up.

 

The movement was so fast and Sherlock was so shocked by it that he didn’t react immediately. For just a few seconds he felt the office space around him transforming into his cell and it wasn’t Sally holding his wrist but one of the guards. Sherlock needed a moment to get out of that flashback. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had stood there frozen, but when he tore his arm away from her, he noticed the looks of shock in the faces of everybody around him.  He panted even though he tried to keep his breathing calm.

 

“Sherlock.” Lestrade stood behind him.

 

How could he not notice him before? How long was he out? God, Sherlock hated that. He took a deep breath and decided to ignore them all. He turned around. “Lestrade, didn’t you want my help with some paperwork?” With that he walked to Lestrade office and even though he didn’t turn around he could still feel the looks of them.

 

He sat down in front of Lestrade’s desk and waited for the DI. As he came in and sat down he could see the worried look on his face.

 

“Everything okay?” Lestrade asked cautiously.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock said and he was grateful that the DI didn’t want to elaborate what had just happened, but instead presented him the case files of their last case.

 

They had just finished the boring paper work and were eating Thai takeaway in Lestrade’s office when a new case came in. A homicide and by what the local police had said, a quite gruesome crime scene. Sherlock sent John a message knowing that the doctor had only a morning shift that day. When he sat down on the passenger seat of Lestrade’s car his gut feeling once again reminded him that this will be a bad day.

 

* * *

The crime scene was a house in the fairly boring suburbs. The garden was overgrown; there was an old faded sale sign in front of it. The house itself looked a bit abandoned, but entering the house Sherlock could already see that the owner had remodelled it for a certain use. There was acoustic isolation everywhere. Even the windows were sound-insulated. A shiver ran down his back. With a dreadful feeling he stepped down into the cellar. Again acoustic isolation could be found on all the walls and the small cellar windows were covered as well. When they stepped into the largest of the three cellar rooms Sherlock saw the victim and he couldn’t help but freeze in the doorway. The victim was a young blonde man, probably a student, tied up with chains between the walls, his feet secured to the floor with further shackles. Blood was all over his body. Knife wounds were nearly everywhere, blood was pooling at his feet. Sherlock felt the walls closing in on him, felt himself back in the manor. The second flashback of the day, now more vivid with the smell of blood assaulting his senses.

 

“John?” Sherlock whispered urgently. “Get me out of here. Now.”

 

John just had to take one look at his friend to realize that Sherlock was on the brink of a panic attack. Without looking at Lestrade and the other Yarders and without saying a word he led Sherlock out of the cellar and upstairs and into the small overgrown back garden where he helped Sherlock to sit down on the stairs. He then crouched in front of him. Sherlock’s breathing had accelerated, his eyes were closed, he rocked back and forth.

 

“Sherlock, you need to slow down your breathing. Here, breathe with me.” John said while he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and placed it over his own heart, allowing Sherlock to feel the calm breathing pattern. It took a while, but slowly Sherlock calmed down. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath.

 

“Thank you.” He said quietly.

 

“You are welcomed.” John smiled and sat down beside of Sherlock. For a moment they just sat there and Sherlock was quite grateful that he didn’t need to explain to John what had just happened.

 

“Let us get a cab and go home.” John said softly.

 

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “I need to go back down there. The case.”

 

“Are you sure? I mean you don’t need to.” John replied.

 

Sherlock got up and stretched out his hand to help John up. “I need to. For me. For the man who died down there.”

 

John just nodded. Before they stepped back in the house he said. “If you need to get out just say it. Or if I have the feeling you need to get out I will get you out. Okay?”

 

Sherlock turned around and gazed at his friend for a moment. “Okay.”

 

* * *

Back in the cellar Sherlock was surprised that he could deal fairly well with the crime scene. Maybe if he had known in advance he wouldn’t have had a flashback at all. The most annoying thing was the looks of Donovan and Lestrade who observed him. While Lestrade was clearly worried Donovan looked at him like he was a fascinating puzzle. It was unnerving

 

In the end the case was easier than expected. Even though the owner was deceased whoever used the house afterwards left enough evidence in the other rooms to give Scotland Yard a good chance to find him. Nevertheless, Sherlock was quite relieved to find himself and John in a cab going back to Baker Street. The day turned out as horrible as his gut feeling had projected it in the morning. And while he desperately wanted to be back at home he also dreaded to be alone. He knew the events of the day would cause him nightmares and with Victor not at home he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with them. Maybe he would not go to bed at all, play the violin and do some experiments to keep himself awake.  It wouldn’t work for the whole night, he was sure about that. He had been exhausted from the previous case and he couldn’t work as maniac as he had in the past. His body has healed well from the whole ordeal, but it also demanded more sleep and more care. God, he hated it. Deep in thought he paid the cab and walked up the stairs. John followed close, but Sherlock didn’t really notice him.

 

Once in the living room he just dropped into his chair and closed his eyes. He heard John rummaging in the kitchen, filling the kettle, preparing tea.

 

“You should pack some stuff.” John said.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the steaming tea mug John handed him.

 

“What?”

 

“I said, you should pack some stuff.” John repeated.

 

“Yes, I heard you the first time. By why should I do that?” Sherlock looked at his friend, frowning.

 

“Victor is still in Dublin, isn’t he?”

 

“Yes, but.”

 

“I don’t think it would be good for you to stay alone tonight?” John said softly. “You can stay with us. Mary wanted to cook some pasta tonight, there will be surely enough for one more eater and you can always stay in the guest room.”

 

“John, I don’t need to be mollycoddled, I.” Sherlock started, but John intervened.

 

“This is not an offer to mollycoddle you. But you had a panic attack at the crime scene and even though we never really talked about it I know enough of your injuries to have an idea what caused them. And I have enough experience with PTSD to know that if you get triggered during daytime you will surely have nightmares as well. God, Sherlock, we lived together long enough. You know how certain events at a crime scene caused me nightmares.”

 

Sherlock hated this discussion even though he knew that John was right, but he definitely didn’t want Mary and John to witness his night terrors.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock took a sip from his tea and looked down on the floor before he whispered. “I don’t want, I don’t want to disturb you. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

 

John got up from his chair and knelt in front of him, nudging him to look him in the eyes. “You will never be a burden.” Sherlock wanted to say something, but John shushed him. “Was I a burden when I woke you up with my nightmares?”

 

“No, but.”

 

“There is no but. Pack some stuff for the night. I will send Mary a text that we will be there soon.” John said and got up, padding Sherlock on his shoulder.

 

Sherlock wanted to argue more, but he knew that John was right. He shouldn’t be alone tonight. And more than that he knew that John could be incredible stubborn. So he got up and packed some stuff. An hour later he was sitting at the kitchen table in John’s and Mary’s house in the suburb. They were eating lasagne while he balanced a happy gurgling Willa on his knees. Later on they sat in the living room for a while talking mainly about Willa’s development. Sherlock could clearly see how both John and Mary avoided talking about the case of today and he couldn’t decide whether he was glad or annoyed about that.

 

Later in the guest room Sherlock meditated, concentrating on his breathing, trying to release the memories of this day events. As it turned out it didn’t help keeping the nightmare away. He was back in the cell, chained up like the victim of the crime scene. Ford came in, laughing at him, this time cutting him with a knife. Sherlock screamed and was awoken up by his own screams. Tangled in the sheets he tried to calm down and hoped that he didn’t wake John and Mary, but the next moment the door of his room was opened cautiously and John stepped in.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

 

“I am sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.” Sherlock answered very quietly. He felt ashamed.

 

John padded closer and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Sherlock felt John’s hand running through his hair. It was oddly soothing and he closed his eyes as he felt tears welling up. He definitely didn’t want John to see him cry, even though the room was quite dark as the only light came in from the hallway.

 

“Come on.” John said and tugged him out of the bed.

 

“John.” Sherlock rasped confused, but John didn’t answer, just dragged him along into the direction of his and Mary’s bedroom. “John.” Sherlock tried again and made a try to stop.

 

“You will sleep better, when you are not alone.” John stated plainly.

 

“John, I can’t.” Sherlock said, a bit horrified by the thought of sharing a bed with John and Mary, even though he had shared a bed with John before, on a few cases outside of London or after he had once contaminated his bedroom with awful smelling chemical experiment. But this was different. He just wanted to say something when Mary stood in the doorway of the bedroom looking at them both.

 

“It is three o’clock in the morning. Would you two please come to bed?” Mary said yawning.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock said. “But your husband has the weird idea that I should sleep in your bed.”

 

“Yes, I know. Good idea. Come on.” Mary said beckoning him to follow as she padded back into the bedroom.

 

Sherlock could see John smiling and knew he would lose this argument anyway and so he led John drag him along and he carefully settled on the edge of the mattress, just to be pushed into the middle by John.

 

“Budge over.” John murmured and snuggled close to him.

 

On the other side Mary turned around to face Sherlock and he could see her smile even though only the street light brought a faint light into the room.

 

“Don’t you think that we have nightmares as well?” She said softly. “With the kind of lives we have lived nightmares are unavoidable. They are surely not as horrible as yours, but enough to wake us up every now and then. And there is nothing better than having somebody who loves you close when that happens. So relax. We are here.” With that she turned around and snuggled up to him as well.

 

Sherlock felt sandwiched between John and Mary. Strangely, for someone who didn’t like his personal space to be invaded he had to admit that this was oddly soothing. It didn’t take too long until he fell asleep again.

 

* * *

Sherlock was woken the next morning by the feeling of a hand combing through his hair and by a smell he knew so well – Victor. He immediately opened his eyes to find himself still in John’s and Mary’s bed, but beside him was Victor, smartly dressed, albeit without shoes, smiling at him.

 

“Vic? What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked his voice raspy from sleep.

 

“I could take the earliest flight this morning and when I couldn’t find you at home Mrs. Hudson told me that you are here.” Victor explained.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Did John tell you?” Sherlock looked around as he guessed that Victor probably wanted to know why Sherlock spent the night in this bed.

 

Victor smiled and said. “Yeah, he told me about the case.”

 

There was no further explanation necessary. Victor leaned down and kissed Sherlock.

 

“Not that I want to stop you.” John interrupted them. “No, if I think about it, I definitely want to stop you.” John chuckled and noticed with a smile how both Sherlock and Victor blushed with embarrassment. “Mary is baking pancakes. So get up.”

 

When John had left Victor kissed Sherlock again. “I am glad you weren’t alone.”

 

Sherlock nodded. Yes, he was glad he wasn’t alone.


	37. Boyfriends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I have to work a lot at the moment. But here is something fluffy, but don't get used to it, there are still things to come.

 

Sherlock stood in Lestrade’s office, leaning on his cane as he peeked through the windows to watch the people in the open office space.

 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.

 

“Mmmmhhh.” Sherlock answered not turning around.

 

“What do you want here?” Lestrade asked. “I don’t have a case and you have been sitting here for half an hour without saying a word.”

 

“Mmmmhhh.” Sherlock answered again, standing up a bit straighter, intensely watching the offices space on the other side of the window.

 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade yelled.

 

“Wait and see.” Was the cryptic answer from Sherlock.

 

Lestrade gave up asking further questions. Instead he got up and stood beside Sherlock to see what the younger man was up to. And now he understood. He saw Victor standing between the desks of his team, the chief superintendent by his side, seemingly introducing him to the other officers.

 

“That is Victor, right?” Lestrade asked.

 

“Mmmmhhh.” Sherlock answered as he watched how Sally talked animatedly to his boyfriend. Sherlock smiled.

 

“What is he doing here?” Lestrade asked, hoping he would get more than just a murmur as an answer.

 

“Working.” Sherlock answered a small smile on his face as he noticed that while Victor was listening to Sally he had also noticed Sherlock and there was a tiny wink that probably only Sherlock had truly noticed.

 

“Working?” Lestrade was annoyed by this conversation as he didn’t get any real answers for his questions. But by now his team, the chief superintendent and Victor approached his office and Lestrade felt a hint of nervousness. It was not like he was not allowed to work with Sherlock Holmes but he also knew that the chief superintendent didn’t really like the consulting detective. The door of the office was opened and the group entered the room.

 

“And this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, who will be you main contact for most cases.” The chief superintendent introduced Victor and with a gesture towards Victor he added. “This is Victor Trevor. He is the new liaison officer of the MI5.” The next moment the chief superintendent spotted Sherlock sprawled on one of the chairs and he narrowed his eyes. “And this is the infamous Sherlock Holmes who in some special cases consults the Yard.” The venom in his voice was unmistakable.

 

“Oh, I know him.” Victor said with a smile and added a clearly visible wink to his words before he approached Lestrade and offered his hand. “Gregory, nice to meet you again.”

 

Before Greg could reply Sally stuttered. “You know each other?”

 

“You mean me and Greg?” Victor asked innocently. “Or me and Sherlock?”

 

“Both.” Sally said.

 

“Well, I know both.” Victor said, smiling, not adding another explanation.

 

The chief superintendent seemed to be less confused and started to talk about the future cooperation before he left Greg’s office.

 

“Thank god, I thought he would never leave.” Victor muttered when the door closed before he turned to Sherlock. “Did you wait here for me?”

 

“Mmmmhh.” Sherlock answered with a nod.

 

“Then we could have taken one cab.” Victor said, shaking his head.

 

“But then it would not have been a surprise.” Sherlock stated with a smirk and a wink while Sally, Greg and the rest of the officers watched them with confused expressions on their faces.

 

“So you really know each other. “ Sally stated.

 

“Oh, Sally, do keep up, he already confirmed that.” Sherlock said with a sigh.

 

“We live together.” Victor explained with a smile.

 

“Oh, you are his new flatmate.” Gregson exclaimed.

 

“Flatmate, no not really.” Victor said his smile broadening.

 

“Before this conversation gets even more tedious, let us go. I am starving.” Sherlock said and sprung up from his chair, grabbing first his cane and then Victor’s hand. “Text me when you have a case.” He shouted at Greg.

 

They were nearly out of the office when Victor stopped. “Yeah, please text him with a case. He is unbearable when he is bored.”

 

“Vic.” Sherlock exclaimed, tugging him along.

 

“Sorry, my boyfriend is apparently also unbearable when he is actually hungry.” Victor said with another smile and a wink before he followed Sherlock.

“Boyfriend?” Sally uttered unbelievingly.

 

Greg couldn’t help and also smiled. “Yeah, boyfriend.”

 

“The freak has a boyfriend.” Sally stuttered once more.

 

“Sally.” Greg shouted.

 

“Sorry, but really, I just flirted with the boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes. I can’t believe it.” Sally shook his head.

 

Greg turned around and realized that this reaction probably was exactly what Sherlock was looking for when he showed up here today.

 

* * *

Once outside Victor stopped Sherlock. “You really needed that, don’t you?” He smirked.

 

“I just wanted to see how your first day at Scotland Yard would look like.” Sherlock stated calmly, but he couldn’t help but to smile a bit.

 

“No, sweetheart, you wanted to show off.” Victor said.

 

“Well, yeah, maybe a bit.” Sherlock said quietly. “But most of all I wanted to see if my prediction would be correct.”

 

“What prediction?” Victor asked curiously.

 

“I assumed that Sally would try and flirt with you.” Sherlock said. “And she did, didn’t she? If the chief superintendent would not have been by your side all of the time she would have asked you out or given her your number.”

 

Victor smiled broadly again. “And you needed to be there to prevent that?”

 

“Yeah.” Sherlock nodded.

 

“You can be quite possessive.” Victor said, still grinning.

 

“Well, you belong to me and I don’t want anybody to think differently.” Sherlock stated and walked to the street to hail a cab.

 

Victor watched him and whispered to himself. “As if there is any risk that I will ever leave you again.”

 


	38. Tripping

Sherlock felt his foot swelling, the pain hammering with the frequency of his pulse. Stupid, Stupid. He was just running up the stairs at Scotland Yard, too impatient to wait for the lift, too eager to see the new found evidence and then he tripped at the top of the stairs. Stupid.

 

“Take the shoe off.” John ordered.

 

Sherlock glared at him for a moment but he knew he had to comply. He slipped out of the shoe, not able to suppress a hiss. The next moment John grabbed his leg and propped it up on his lap after he had sat down opposite of Sherlock. The team of Yarders were standing in a circle around him as John carefully took the sock of Sherlock’s swollen foot and pushing the trouser leg up a bit. The foot was already starting to get thick. Red and blue hematomas were already blooming in different parts, competing in colour with the thick scars around the ankle and the scars from the operation. Sherlock felt the staring looks of the people around him as he watched how John gently began to probe the different bones. Sherlock bit his lip not to make a sound because of the pain it caused.

 

“We need to take you to the A&E, the bone might be broken but I need an x-ray to determine that.” John said firmly.

 

Sherlock sighed and used the absence of John’s hand on his foot to swing his leg away.

 

“That has to wait.” He said. “I need to look at the analysis of the evidence we found in his old house first. I am sure it will lead us to the man.” Sherlock turned around to the new young sergeant. “Some ice would be nice though.”

 

“Sherlock. You need a hospital. The foot might be broken.d” John yelled.

 

Sherlock glared at him. “I know, but it has to wait.”

 

“If it is broken it needs to be treated.” John yelled again.

 

“It had been broken before and wasn’t treated for weeks and I was able to live with that.” Sherlock shouted back. “I can work nevertheless and it is not like the damage is worse than it was back then.”

 

Silence stretched through the conference room. Sherlock didn’t have to look around to know that all eyes were on him. He had quite an idea of the shocked faces around him but he had his gaze still fixed on John. For a moment he berated himself for speaking it out like that but then he remembered that there was a case he wanted to solve. Just as John wanted to say something Sherlock intervened.

 

“There is a man out there searching for his wife in order to kill her. I will not waste time in an A&E. You can either help me and get me some ice to cool the foot or leave me alone.”

 

John took a deep breath. He clenched his hands to fists and released them periodical.

 

“Okay.” He finally said. “But you will sit down and keep the foot up. And as soon as this is finished I will bring you to the A&E and you will not complain about whatever the doctors decide to do.” John turned around. “Some ice would be good.”

 

“Okay.” Sherlock nodded. “Now. Where is the file with the analysis?” He turned to look at Sally who watched him with shock written all over her face. “Sally, the case.”

 

* * *

It took them the rest of the day to narrow down the possible location of the man they were looking for. When the teams went out to the three possible locations Sherlock was forced to wait in the conference room. He was giddy and wished he would be able to at least pace up and down. The news of the arrest came soon and John just got up and held his hand out for Sherlock to take.

 

“Let’s get you to a hospital.” John said.

 

Sherlock said nothing, but grabbed his cane and carefully got up with John’s help. Slowly they made their way out of the Yard building. As promised Sherlock didn’t complain about the treatment. He just let the doctor work and was quite happy that nothing was broken. He would need to rest his foot for quite some time and John said he would take care of that and that he would instruct Victor to force Sherlock to rest if necessary.

* * *

Leaning on the cane more than usual he stepped into Lestrade’s office. Both Lestrade and Sally, who was seated in one of the chairs opposite to the DI, looked up to him.

 

“Bored.” Sherlock announced as he hoppled to the free chair beside Sally. “Give me anything. Some cold case, something.”

 

“You know Sherlock, that John said you should rest your foot.” Greg said.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John developed into a real mother hen and it was annoying. “There is nothing broken and I can rest my foot and look at a cold case at the same time. It is not like my injured foot interferes with my brain.”

 

“Sherlock.” Sally said and the hesitance in her voice was obvious. Sherlock knew what she was about to do and he definitely didn’t want to talk about it.

 

“No.” He said sternly.

 

“No?” Sally asked. “I haven’t even asked a question.”

 

“No need for that. Your voice and your posture were revealing enough.” Sherlock explained.

 

“Sherlock, we just thought.” Lestrade started, but he didn’t get the chance to finish that sentence.

 

“No.” Sherlock stopped him. “You might want to talk about it. You might be curious, but I will not talk about it. I am here because I am bored and I had hoped for at least a cold case that might be mildly interesting. If you will not give me one I leave you to your work.” With that Sherlock got up. Pain shot through his foot as he put too much weight on it. He swayed a bit and had to bite his lips to not wince loudly. As fast as his foot allowed it he walked to the door.

 

“Sherlock.” Greg said. “Wait.”

 

Sherlock turned around.

 

“I don’t have any cold cases now, but I will ask some colleagues and then I will call you.” Greg said.

 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “Thank you.” With that he turned around and left.

 

In the cab on the way back home Sherlock thought about a talk a he had with Dr. Rosewood after the Yarders had seen the scars on his wrists. “You cannot avoid the topic forever.” She had said. But that was exactly what he wanted to do. He didn’t want the Yarders to know. Let them speculate and guess. He didn’t care. They will forget it eventually, he hoped.

 


	39. Christmas

Christmas was arriving at Baker Street. Sherlock hasn’t even tried to prevent the decoration lunacy that came over their flat. With both Mrs. Hudson and Victor looking forward to a festive house he didn’t stand a chance anyway. So he didn’t even try to oppose having a Christmas-decorating afternoon. For a moment he thought he could slip away and spent the afternoon in the lab of St. Bart, but that wasn’t an option once Mrs. Hudson asked John and Mary to come over and bring Willa with them. In the end Sherlock surrendered.  Now he sat on the floor, entertaining a happy squeaking Willa while John, Mary and Victor attached fairy lights to the window and the bull skull while Mrs. Hudson distributed her tea and cookies to everyone.

 

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” John asked.

 

Sherlock huffed out a deep breath as this question reminded him on a not very nice argument he had with his parents and Mycroft. He just wanted to answer John’s question when Victor started to talk.

 

“We will have a quiet Christmas here, just the two of us.” Victor said with a smile and a nod directed at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, I thought you would spend Christmas with your parents and Mycroft.” Mary said astound.

 

“That was what they wanted, but fortunately we could convince them that we needed time for ourselves.” Victor answered calmly.

 

“You are rather diplomatic in that description.” Sherlock scoffed.

 

John raised a questioning eyebrow.

 

“Well, my parents wanted us to spend Christmas, all of it, including Boxing Day, with them and as if that wasn’t enough they wanted to spend it at the house.” Sherlock explained, emphasizing the last word with particular disdain.

 

“The house? You mean the cosy cottage?” John asked slightly confused.

 

“No, not the cottage. The manor house. Holmes Hall, home to the Holmes family since 1634. The big, old house where Mycroft lives. Thank god, he is the oldest and got it.” Sherlock said and shuddered a bit with disgust.

 

“So the cottage?” John asked a bit more confused.

 

“The cottage is the home my parents chose to live in when they retired and handed over the estate to the oldest. I grew up in the Hall.” Sherlock said with scorn in his voice. He’d rather sooner than later wanted to end this topic.

 

John looked at his friend. He had always assumed that Sherlock came from a posh background. Admittedly, he had been quite surprised to find out how normal Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were and the cottage where they had spent that cursed Christmas was so nice and cosy that he had always assumed that Sherlock had a nice upbringing in that warm and welcoming little home. Once again John realized that there were still a lot of things he didn’t know about his best friend.

 

“So you grew up in what – a kind of castle? You are from aristocracy?” John asked mockingly. “But you didn’t like it and you don’t want to spend Christmas there?”

 

Sherlock looked at him with an exasperating expression. “Landed gentry, and no, it is not a castle, but just a very big house. I know it sounds nice, but people always have false assumptions about these kinds of houses, because honestly it is stuffy and in winter time quite cold.” Sherlock paused a moment before he continued. “But that is not the only reason I don’t want to spend Christmas there. The house is full of memories and most of them are not pleasant.” He felt that everyone in the room watched him. Victor with a loving, sympathetic look, but the others were waiting for a further explanation. Especially John had a questioning look on his face. “Do I really have to explain it?” John nodded. “Well, it is not that Ford became a sadistic bastard when we went to university. He had always played his games with me and neither my parents nor Mycroft noticed it. So I don’t feel the need to spend any time in a place where everything reminds me of him.” Sherlock hastily said.

 

“Oh.” John said.

 

“And did your parents understand that?” Mary asked after a moment of silence.

 

Sherlock looked at her for a moment and just wanted to say something when Victor intervened.

“Let’s say it wasn’t a very nice discussion, but in the end they accepted it. We are still thinking about a solution that will be okay for everybody.” Sherlock looked at his friend and smiled a bit. In said discussion with his parents and Mycroft it was Victor who had calmed everybody down.

 

“We might have a solution?” John said. “We could invite your parents on Christmas day to our house and you come over as well. It would be a kind of response to their invitation and I am quite sure your mother really loves Willa. And I expect Willa’s godfather to make a Christmas visit anyway.”

 

Sherlock thought about the idea. It would indeed be a good solution as he didn’t want his parents visiting them in Baker Street where he would be stuck with them with no way to escape. And he had thought about going to the Watsons on Christmas anyway.

 

“And we could even invite Mycroft, although he hates Christmas, doesn’t he?” Mary asked with a smug expression.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock grinned. “He hates Christmas but he surely wouldn’t deny our parents request. Hell, he was willing to celebrate Christmas in the Hall, including decoration.” 

 

“So, we do it this way. I will invite everybody, first your parents and once they agreed your brother will have no chance to escape.” Mary said with a smirk that rivalled Sherlock’s.

 

“You two can be really evil when you work together.” John chuckled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas Day had been quite nice, even Sherlock had to admit it. Having John, Mary and of course Willa at the centre of the attention made the day quite bearable, Sherlock thought. And Victor. He played the buffer between Sherlock and his family every time one of them wanted to talk about how he was doing. Sherlock sighed while he watched London pass by as they were on their way back to Baker Street in a cab.

 

“You okay?” Victor asked.

 

“Mmmmh.” Sherlock answered still looking out of the window.

 

“It wasn’t too bad, right?”

 

Sherlock turned around and smiled. “No, it wasn’t too bad.”

 

“You are thinking about what your brother has told you when we left?” Victor asked worried.

 

“No, not really.” Sherlock answered, again watching London pass by. His brother had given him some information about clients who had been prosecuted in different countries. It felt strangely far away, maybe because Mycroft had been able to keep Sherlock out of every investigation so far. He had always assumed that it would trigger something, hearing their names and knowing that they were prosecuted. Maybe it was due to the quite clinical way in which his brother describe everything to him, that it all seemed to be so normal.

 

“Have you taken a look?” Victor asked.

 

Sherlock nodded. He was sure Victor referred to the envelope his brother had given him. “Yeah. It is the identity of the blonde woman. Olga, Russian, 24 when she was killed, her family lives in a small village south of Moscow.”

 

“And what are you going to do with that information?” Victor asked and his voice sounded so worried that Sherlock turned around.

 

“I don’t know, yet. I asked Mycroft to inform the family. They should not wait longer just because I am not ready to do anything with this.” He gestured to the envelope he had taken out of his coat pocket.

 

“Maybe you don’t have to do anything with it.” Victor said and he turned away to look out of the window. He probably didn’t want Sherlock to see his face but he saw the reflection in the window.

 

Sherlock snorted quietly. “You are worried.”

 

“Does that surprise you?” Victor turned around again.

 

“No, no, it doesn’t.” Sherlock said as he put the envelope away again. For a while neither of the two men said a word. “Maybe you are right. I don’t need to do anything. Maybe it is enough to know, to know the name and to know that her family will stop waiting.” Sherlock finally said.

 

“Mmmhhh.” Victor hummed as an answer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Boxing day was nice as they had been able to reject all attempts by Sherlock’s parents to meet again. So they had stayed in bed for most of the day. Eventually they had been downstairs for dinner as Mrs. Hudson insisted on cooking for them. It was pleasant, even Sherlock had to admit it. He didn’t mind her company and her chattering and he and Victor had played violin for quite some time after dinner. Later that evening when they were back alone upstairs Sherlock thought about settling in front of the fireplace, but Victor had obviously another idea and dragged him into the bedroom.

 

“How about a very late Christmas present?” Victor said and he smiled mischievously.

 

“Oh.” Sherlock said. “What is it?”

 

“Whatever you want?” Victor answered, falling onto the bed and tearing Sherlock down with him.

 

They both burst into giggles before they start to kiss passionately. You, Sherlock thought, you and me, nothing else.


	40. In the bright light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slower updating. Too much work, but there ar still some chapters to come and I am working on them.

Sherlock cursed. Why couldn’t Dimmock watch out where he walked with hot coffee in both hands? Why had he to stand here at that precise moment? Why had he taken off the soaked shirt without thinking about what he would reveal for everybody to see? Ah yes, he remembered Dr. Rosewood’s words. She had told him that it would happen accidentally, when he would be on a case, when he was absorbed with other thoughts. And she was right.  He had revealed the scars on his writs accidentally, when he needed to show them to the terrified woman in the human trafficking case in order to calm her down. Well, the Yarders didn’t see them back then, that only happened when Sally was too curious and had shoved up his sleeves without asking him. Only then everyone around had seen the scars, still clearly visible after all this time. He had not noticed the stares back then as he was having a flashback, but later on he had just ignored them and pretended nothing happened. But he knew he had let the cat out of the bag back then and that he himself had added further evidence along the way. There was the panic attack at the crime scene when John had to help him to get out of the cellar room. He still remembered the worried looks of Lestrade and the curious ones of Donovan and the whispers in the open space office of the Yard the next time he was there. And then there was the incident with his foot, here in this conference room as well. That time they had not only seen the scars on his ankle but had listened to his rand about his previous injury. He had stopped himself back then, not only because he didn’t want to discuss the topic any further but because there was a case to solve. And again he had ignored all their stares and had brushed off the attempts of Greg and Sally to talk about it afterwards.

 

And now here he was again in that bloody conference room. It had to be in this room, brightly lit with neon lights, no way to hide. He nearly smiled at this setting where everything was clearly visible, white and red scars marring his body. He knew every one of them, remembered every single event that had caused them. And here he was, under the scrutiny of the Yarders who by now surly had put all the evidence together, bit by bit they had seen his scarred wrists and ankles, had witnessed him panicking at a crime scene with a chained up victim who was tortured. And now they saw the rest of it, well nearly everything. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. He felt their looks on him as well as their awkwardness. He should do something. With that thought he snapped back into reality.

 

“Didn’t you say you had a dry shirt for me?” He snarled to Lestrade who hurried out of the conference room.

 

Sherlock saw how John took off his jumper and was about to hand it to him. Sherlock smiled and shook his head. Covering up now would be a useless endeavour. The next moment Greg arrived with a shirt in his hand that Sherlock took and put on. It was a bit loose, but it didn’t really matter. When he turned around he saw Dimmock, Sally and Greg were still staring at him.

 

“We have two kidnapped children in the hand of a lunatic. Do you want to continue to stare at me or shall we try to find them?” Sherlock snapped.

 

This sentence brought all of them out of their torpor. They started to work on the evidence again and none of them spoke a word of what they have seen, but Sherlock could feel the glances that were directed at him every now and then. When they left the conference room to follow different trails John placed his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

 

“Sherlock?” John stopped him. “Are you okay?”

 

Sherlock smiled when he watched his ever the caring friend. “I knew this would happen eventually.” Sherlock said. “I will cope.”

 

“If you want to talk.” John offered.

 

Sherlock snorted and smiled. “Let us find the kids.”

 

“Sure.” John said and Sherlock could see the sad kind of relief radiating from his friend’s face.

  

* * *

 

After looking for more evidence at the crime scene, the place where the children were kidnapped, Sherlock headed home while John went to the clinic for his afternoon shift.

 

Sherlock stood in front of his own evidence wall in the living room when Victor came in. He was partially involved in the case as well, but he wasn’t supposed to be home that early. Only conclusion John had phoned him. Before Victor could say a word Sherlock turned around. “No need to worry.”

 

“How do you know that I am worried about you?” Victor asked smiling softly.

 

“You are here too early. If you would have some new information regarding the case you would have texted me or phoned me. So if it is not for the case the only other conclusion is that you come here for me. And since John worries about me and since he doesn’t believe me when I said that I was okay he phoned you. Am I right?”

 

Victor took the few steps to close the distance between them and kissed Sherlock.

 

“I think that was a yes.” Sherlock chuckled.

 

“Yes, John phoned me and told me what has happened.” Victor explained drawing Sherlock into a hug.

 

“I am fine. Yes, it happened, but it is okay and now I would like to concentrate on the case.” Sherlock said and turned around to face the evidence wall again.

 

“You want a sparring partner for your ideas?” Victor asked. He knew that it was no use forcing Sherlock to talk about what happened that morning.

 

Together they stared at the wall and Sherlock started to point out different things that he had found out so far. 


	41. Deducing the truth

 

It took them four more days until they had a solid lead. And all along Sherlock could feel and see the worried glances he received. He tried to ignore them and focus on the task. In the end they found the children, who were traumatized and scared, but uninjured. Only a few hours after they had found the children they sat the trap for the kidnapper and he walked right in. When the paper work was done it was late in the evening. Sherlock was truly exhausted but like the other people involved in the case he also felt a strange giddiness that always accompanied the successful ending of complicated cases that didn’t just end with catching a murder but actually saving a live, or in this case the live of two children.

 

“Oi, Sherlock, Victor.” Greg called into the conference room.  “We want to celebrate the case, at my place, with some takeaway and some beer. Want to join us?”

 

Victor looked at Sherlock, raising one eyebrow and smiling. It was a clear indicator that Victor was inclined to join the team in their celebration. He had always been more sociable than Sherlock and he rather enjoyed the evenings with the Yarders, rather strange for somebody who in the past had deliberately chosen to work alone in a job that doesn’t allow you to have friends, Sherlock thought. He himself wasn’t really into this kind of celebrations that the team usually held in a pub near the Yard, but he could see that Victor would really be happy if they joined them and takeaway at Greg’s place sounded quite okay.

 

“Yes, we will come.” Sherlock said. “We have to get home first, feed Baxter.”

 

* * *

Half an hour later the team was spread across Greg’s living room. John had joined them as well.

Victor and Sherlock shared the large leather chair, Sherlock sitting more on Victor then on the chair, but since the whole team knew about their relationship Sherlock by now couldn’t care less. Baxter sat beside the sofa happy to be petted by Sally. After they had eaten and another round of beer was brought from the kitchen a strange silence filled the room. Sally cleared her throat as if she wanted to say something and Sherlock knew exactly what she wanted to ask. Her posture, the mixture of curiosity and insecurity made it so obvious.

 

“Sherlock.” She started and he suppressed the smirk. She hadn’t asked yet but her voice, the hesitation and the way she couldn’t really look at him made it clear that Sherlock was right with his deduction. He decided to wait for her to really ask so he just looked at her with an expressionless face.

 

“Sherlock.” She started again. “You don’t need to talk about it, when you don’t want to, but. I mean we all saw it. I just.”

 

Sherlock felt Victor tensing beside him and he gently squeezed his friend’s hand, feeling the strange urge to comfort him while it should have been probably the other way round. Sally had stopped talking and while Sherlock only watched her he could feel that everybody in the room was looking at him. This was the moment. Dr. Rosewood had made it quite clear, even back then in Sussex. He needed to make a decision how to deal with this, telling them the truth, or at least parts of it, or brushing them off. Within seconds Sherlock made the decision.

 

“Deduce it.” Sherlock declared his voice to his own surprise strong and steady.

 

“Deduce it?” Sally asked confused

 

John shook his head and gasped. “Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, you heard me. You are a police officer, and despite what I say most of the times, you are not that bad in your job. So go ahead, deduce it. Tell me what you make of the evidence you have seen.” Sherlock said calmly casting a glance at John to stop him from intervening.

 

Sally cleared her throat and sat up straight. She took a deep breath before she started. “Your wrists and ankles show scars that are signs of restraints.” Her voice wavered.

 

Sherlock just nodded. He opened the buttons on his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. “But you should be able to see more.”

 

Sally stared at his wrists and cleared her throat again. “It is more than just one scar. They are layered.”

 

“And that might be the result of what?” Sherlock asked.

 

“You have been restrained more than once?” Sally asked and for the first time she looked Sherlock in the eyes.

 

“Could be one explanation.” Sherlock answered.

 

“You tried to get away?” Gregson interjected.

 

“Or?” Sherlock said and he was still surprised how calm he was. He felt strangely fine with the situation.

 

“Somebody tore at the restraints, in some way or the other?” Lestrade joined in.

 

“Very well.” Sherlock said and he felt the uneasy tenseness radiating from Victor’s body beside him, but he decided to do it this way and he had no intention to stop. He looked at John again and he could see John’s angry face like, He obviously didn’t want this situation, he still felt guilty Sherlock deduced. He looked him in the eyes hoping to make him understand that he needed to do this. John shook his head imperceptible, but finally sighed and settled back in his chair. Sherlock turned around to face Sally again. “Go on, Sally, you had more evidence then just those scars.”

 

“But wait a moment.” Gregson intervened. “Don’t we get to know who was right?”

 

Sherlock turned to look at him. “Greg and Sally were right. You were wrong. There was no way to escape.” Sherlock felt how Victor’s hand started to rub small circles on his back. “Go on, Sally.”

 

“Your foot was broken. You said that, back then. You said, it was for weeks, untreated.” Sally started. Sherlock just nodded and looked at her. “You broke your foot. That is why you got captured and held for weeks.”

 

“Could have been the right answer, but no.” Sherlock stated. It felt like a game, like they were not talking about him, but just about some crime scene evidence.

 

“No?” Lestrade asked.

 

Sherlock turned to face him. “No. When the bones in the foot were broken I already had been there for about two months.”

 

Silenced filled the room as everybody tried to comprehend the meaning of those word. Victor leaned a bit closer and whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “You don’t have to tell them.”

 

Sherlock turned around and smiled, giving Victor a gentle peck. “I know I don’t have to, but I will.” He turned to look at Sally again. “Go ahead.”

 

Sally was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Once more she cleared her throat. “The scars on your back.” She stopped for a moment. “They look like whiplashes, but there were also burns and cuts.”

 

Sherlock just looked at her. “And that means?”

 

Sally didn’t answer. Instead Greg said it very quietly. “You were tortured.”

 

Sherlock looked Greg in the eyes and simply said. “Yes.” It wasn’t that difficult to admit, less difficult than he had thought. He would have thought that by now a flashback would be clouding his mind, but everything was fine.

 

Sally spoke again. “So you got captured and were held somewhere for more than two months and were tortured, repeatedly?” Her voice broke a bit. “They must have really wanted something form you that you weren’t willing to tell them.” There was a hint of awe in her words.

 

“Well, yes and no.” Sherlock answered.

 

“Yes and no?” Sally asked.

 

“I got captured. But I was held for three month. And no, they didn’t want to know anything.” Sherlock stated calmly.

 

“They didn’t want to know anything?” Greg asked confused. “But why would they torture you?”

 

“Sherlock.” John intervened pleadingly. Sherlock looked at him for a while. Should he tell them the truth. Should he stop here. He hesitated a moment with his answer, but then he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Fun.”

 

“Fun?” Sally asked, shaking her head. “People tortured you for fun?”

 

“Well, they paid for it.” Sherlock could see the shock on her face. “Remember the young woman in the warehouse down at the harbour?” Sherlock asked and waited until Sally nodded. “You asked me what I told her to calm her down. Well, I showed her my scars knowing that she would have similar ones. And then I told her that I know what it means to be dehumanized, to be nothing more than a commodity, something to be sold for the entertainment of some perverts and for the profit of someone else.” Sherlock said, his voice quite but steady, his eyes no longer fixed on Sally or Lestrade but on Baxter who seemed to listen to him as well.

 

Silenced filled the room as everybody processed what they had just heard. Sherlock said nothing. He turned around to look at Victor who gave him a small encouraging smile and mouthed a silent “I love you.”

 

Lestrade’s voice cut through this moment. “How did you get out of there?”

 

Sherlock didn’t turn around. He still looked at Victor when he answered. “I was rescued by someone who didn’t believe that I was dead.”

 

“Victor?” Lestrade asked disbelievingly.

 

Sherlock watched Victor and silently they agreed to tell the story.

 

“I found out that the network Sherlock was supposed to infiltrate was run by Anton Baracnik who, let’s say, has some personal issues with Sherlock, but who is also someone who would never burn the body of an enemy, but rather put the corpse on display as a deterrent.” Victor started.

 

“Baracnik?” Lestrade asked, clearly having heard the name before.

 

Victor just nodded and continued. “So I assumed Sherlock was alive and I searched for him, found him and got him out.” It sounded simple in Victor’s words, but Sherlock felt a wave of gratitude flooding his body when he thought about it.

 

“But you were not alone, right?” Gregson asked.

 

“I was alone. I found out where Will was and then I posed as a client.” Victor said, his eyes still on Sherlock.

 

There was a moment before Sally started to speak. “What happened to, I mean, there must have been people?” She stuttered, unable to find the right words.

 

“The guards? The other staff?” Victor asked and his vicious smile was enough to make even Sherlock shudder a bit. “I couldn’t risk that some alarmed Ford or followed us.”

 

“But you have a desk job at the MI5.” Gregson said.

 

Victor just smiled. “Now.” That was the only explanation he gave, but it was enough for everybody in the room to understand what has happened. Sherlock turned around and watched how each person chewed on the information they had just received and he saw the moment Greg found the missing piece.

 

“Ford? You said it was about Baracnik?” Lestrade asked. “And why would an Eastern European mobster have a personal issue with you, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock smirked and turned around to look at Victor again. “You gave it away.” He said quietly.

 

“You want to keep it a secret? You don’t have to answer.” Victor said with a shrug.

 

Sherlock turned around. “Baracnik and I grew up together.”

 

“What?” Sally asked. “How?”

 

“Baracnik’s real name is Ford, Sherrinford.” Sherlock hesitated a moment. “Holmes. He is my brother, my non-identical twin brother to be precise, few minutes older.” He looked at Sally who watched him her mouth open in disbelief. “And while you sometimes think I am a freak.” He could see Sally taking a deep breath. “He really is a psychopath. And since I am the reason he had to leave England, which is a long story that I will not tell you, he has some personal issues with me, obviously enough to sell me to people who like to torture humans for fun.” Sherlock felt his pulse racing as he spoke the last few words. It felt strange to state this like the fact it was. And while every other fact he had confirmed this evening didn’t really felt like it was really connected to him, this one was and it caused quite a vibrant physical reaction.

 

“What happened to him?” Lestrade asked. “I mean, is he alive? Was he captured? Will there be a trial?”

 

“He is alive. He will stay alive. He will not be trialed, but he will surely never leave the prison he is now kept in.” Sherlock answered curtly.

 

Silence filled the room once more. Sherlock felt Victor’s hand on his back, stroking up and down his spine. This was it. No more speculations. He didn’t have to be careful not to show his scars anymore. Sherlock felt an odd kind of relieve while he was also dreading if the Yarders would treat him differently in the future. Dr. Rosewood’s voice was in his mind again. Tell people what you need, don’t let them assume how to treat you, tell them.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I guess that answered most questions.” He looked at each of them. “If not, I am sorry, but this is all I will ever say about it. I just asked you to not talk to anybody about this.” He paused a moment. “I trust you.” He saw how Sally and Gregson nodded and heard how Greg muttered his assurance. Sherlock took another deep breath. “And furthermore I hope this doesn’t change anything. I am not fragile or in need of mollycoddling. If you don’t call me freak from time to time, Sally, that would be really strange. Or if you don’t scold me for my disregard for rules, Greg.”

 

“Sherlock.” Greg said with a soft voice.

  
“No.” Sherlock stopped him. “They didn’t break me. They came close, but no, they didn’t break me. I am here and they are either dead or in prison. There had been trials to prosecute those people who tortured me and the other unfortunate people my brother used for his perverse business. And Ford will never see the light of day again. That is enough for me. I am here, I am alive and I don’t want things to change.”

 

Sherlock looked around. Everybody nodded and he smiled. “I will remind you if you don’t.” He turned around to Victor. “Time to leave. Five days with nearly no sleep is enough.” With that both Victor and Sherlock got up and left, Baxter slowly following them without prompting.

 

“Sherlock.” John said as he followed them both to the door. “Are you okay?”

 

John looked so worried that it made Sherlock feel uncomfortable. “John.” He started. “They had to find out eventually. Telling them these few facts is better than letting them speculate and whisper behind my back.”

 

John nodded. “I am just worried.”

 

“Yes, I know, but I am okay, as okay as I can be.” Sherlock answered. Victor said nothing, just stepped a bit closer and put an arm around Sherlock’s waist as if to say that he will be there if the nightmares will haunt him again.

 

“Okay.” John said quietly. “If you need anything, please call.”

 

“I will, I promise.” Sherlock answered. “Go back. I think they need more support than me.” Sherlock smirked.

 

John nodded and turned around and walked back in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to write this. Too much work and then it felt not right, so I re-worte large parts of it. But now it is here.  
> There will be around three to four chapters and then this story will be finished. Those are already drafted but not finished yet, but I hope I will be able to post at least a chapter a week.


	42. First fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry, for letting you wait so long for the next chapter, but first I was swamped with work, then I was travelling (to London to see Hamlet :-) which was amazing) and then I was sick. But now I am back and I hope to finish this story in the next few weeks. I have outlined and drafted another two or three chapters, maybe four.

 

It was their first fight, Sherlock realized while the echo of the door being slammed shut ran through his mind. It was the first real fight, not a little squabble. And it was Sherlock’s fault, no doubt about that. He had been reckless. The case had been so intriguing. He had lost himself in the puzzle. It had felt so good. He hadn’t felt so good on a case for so long, well, when he was honest with himself, the last time he felt like that was years ago, before his fall, long before his exile. And that was why he had just run after the suspect without thinking, without calling for back-up and without waiting for John. Sherlock thought that the three broken ribs and the small number of bruises were a small price for catching the murder, but first John was furious with him, forcing him to go to a hospital and yelling at him all the way to the A&E. In hindsight John’s anger was better than Victor’s reaction. Victor was picking him up at the hospital but didn’t speak a single word all the way back to Baker Street. Back in the flat he waited until Sherlock had lowered himself carefully into his chair and then Victor had let out all the words he hadn’t spoken before, a spate of accusations, accusing Sherlock of being reckless (which was true), selfish (which might be true in certain cases, but not in this, well, maybe a tiny bit), stupid (which was absolutely not true) and that he didn’t care that his actions made the people who love him worry (that wasn’t true either. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, Sherlock thought, it was more that in certain moments he just didn’t think about it). Every time Sherlock tried to intervene to state his opinion and his views Victor stopped him. In the end Sherlock couldn’t say a single word in his defence as Victor has left the flat stating that he needed to get away.

 

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, starring at the door. He had truly no idea if Victor would return and if so, if he would stay or if he would only pick up his stuff and leave wordlessly or with another bout of anger. Sherlock sighed and his hand wandered into the pockets of his coat that was lying beside him on the armrest of his chair. In the left pocket he found what he was looking for, a small black box. It had resided in his coat for about a week now, ever since he had chosen the ring at the small goldsmith shop. It was a spontaneous decision, a feeling that the time had come, that he wanted to tell Victor that he very much wanted this, wanted him forever. And now they had fight, well, not really fight. Victor was just so angry, so disappointed and Sherlock felt a mixture of despair and he was angry too. Couldn’t Victor see that those things just happened, that Sherlock didn’t do them with the intention to hurt himself and Victor? The cases made Sherlock feel alive, make him feel normal again, after everything that had happened. Would Victor leave? Would he ask Sherlock to stop working? He turned the little black box in his hands several times before he opened it and gazed at the plain platinum band he had bought. He had thought he would get a second one for himself once Victor would have said yes, but now. Sherlock sighed and closed the box. He needed to apologize. Without a second thought he jumped up, wincing a bit as the broken ribs reminded him of their existence.

 

* * *

Sherlock saw Victor when he was still quite far away. As anticipated he was sitting on his favourite bench in Regent’s Park, watching over the small pond in the inner circle. Sherlock walked up to him and sat down beside him without saying a word. Victor just glanced his way for a few seconds before he turned to look at the ducks on the pond.

 

“I am sorry.” Sherlock started.

 

Victor just hummed his acknowledgement, but not even looked at him. They sat in silence for a while. Sherlock was expecting that Victor would say something, more accusations or even simply telling him that he would leave. After a while Sherlock couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

 

“Will you leave?” Sherlock asked very quietly.

 

Victor turned around immediately, but Sherlock didn’t dare to look at him, instead he stared at the ground before his feet.

 

“Why would I leave?” Victor asked.

 

“It sounded like you had enough.” Sherlock answered and before Victor could intervene he added. “I would understand it. I cannot give up my work. I need it. And there are always risks.”

 

“It is not about the work.” Victor sighed. “It is not even about the risks that come with your job. It is about the unnecessary risks you take without even thinking about them with that big brain of yours.”

 

“I am sorry.” Sherlock repeated very, very quiet.

 

“I know.” Victor said and smiled. “Look at me.” Sherlock did as asked. “Don’t think that you will get rid of me that easy.”

 

Sherlock bit his lower lip and nodded. This was the moment.

  
“Victor.” He started.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sherlock got up and stepped in front of Victor and for a moment he hesitated. Victor thought this was the sign to get up and walk back to their flat, but as soon as he got up Sherlock stopped him.

 

“Wait.” Sherlock said. “I need to.” He paused. “I need to ask you something.”

 

Victor looked at him confusion on his face. “Okay?”

 

Sherlock swallowed down the lump he was feeling in his throat. He thought if he should get down on one knee. That would be very traditional, but also so not him. So he just climbed on Victor’s lap.

 

“Do you want us to get arrested for public indecency?” Victor smiled and chuckled before he started to kiss Sherlock who responded enthusiastically.

 

“No.” Sherlock panted when they broke apart. He felt Victor’s hands on his hips which didn’t make it easy to concentrate on the task ahead. “I wanted to ask you something.”

 

“So you said.” Victor said with a wide smile. “Go ahead.”

 

“I.” Sherlock started and stopped again. He hadn’t thought this through and now he wasn’t quite sure what so say. “I love you.”

 

“Yes, I know. I love you too.” Victor replied.

 

“Don’t talk. I need to get this out.” Sherlock snapped and regretted it immediately, but Victor just looked at him a little amused. Silence spread between them. Damn, why was this so difficult, Sherlock thought, but then he had an idea. He pulled out the small black box and opened it before he turned it around for Victor to see.

 

Victor looked at the box, his mouth slightly open. He stared at the ring. “Will?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock whispered.

 

“You.” Victor started but he didn’t quite know how to phrase the question.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock repeated.

 

Victor looked up and saw the small smile on Sherlock’s face. It was a bit too smug. So Victor smiled at him. “Why do you say ‘yes’? Aren’t you the one who is supposed to ask the question accompanying the ring?”

 

Sherlock bit his lower lip and then he took a deep breath. “Victor. I love you and I want you to stay, even when I do stupid things.” He took another deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

 

Victor smiled at him but didn’t answer immediately. Instead he leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s lips with his. It was a long and slow kiss. When they broke apart Sherlock shook his head slightly. “That wasn’t an answer. You asked me to speak it out, now I can expect a real answer as well.”

 

Sherlock pouted and Victor wanted nothing more than to kiss that pout away, but he could understand Sherlock’s need for a spoken answer. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are infuriating, reckless and sometimes just ridiculous.” The last words led Sherlock to frown. “But you are also adorable.” The frown increased. “Wonderful and I can’t imagine living without you, which by the way is why I get so angry when you do something so stupid as today, because it scares me. It reminds me that I already nearly lost you once. So yes, yes, I will marry you.” And with that he kissed Sherlock again.

 

After a while they broke apart. “Let’s get home.” Victor said. “It is getting cold and your doctor had prescribed you rest.”

 

Sherlock nodded and got up. He held out his hand to Victor. Once Victor had gotten up Sherlock pulled him closer. “I will try to be less reckless. I promise.” Sherlock said quietly.

 

Victor gave him a soft peck on his lips. “That is all I asked for.”

 

Together they slowly walked back to their flat, in silence, holding hands. 

 


	43. Finding closure

 

He wanted to go alone. Victor couldn’t understand it, but he needed to do it alone. They had argued for quite a while, but in the end Victor agreed on a compromise. Victor would accompany him to Russia, but not to Olga’s family. They had stayed silent all the way from the airport to the small village where they had rented a room in a tiny and old-fashioned guesthouse. Even in the small room neither of them said a word. Just as Sherlock took a look at his watch and was about to say that he needed to go Victor cleared his throat.

 

“I can still come with you.” He said quietly and there was a pleading in his voice.

 

Sherlock smiled as he turned around. “I know, but I need to do this alone.”

 

Victor nodded and he bit his lower lip. He still thought that this was a bad idea. The confrontation with her family will be too much for Sherlock, but he knew better than to start an argument again. “But you promise me that you will call if anything happens.” If you need me, was what he wanted to say.

 

“I promise.” Sherlock said while he grabbed his coat and turned to the door. He paused for a moment and turned around. “I love you.” He whispered and gave Victor a chaste kiss. Then he left.

 

* * *

 

There were moments during the talk with Olga’s family when Sherlock desperately whished Victor would sit by his side. He was so lost. Before this visit he had thought a lot about what he would tell them, but all his well defined words vanished the moment he saw Olga’s little sister. Those eyes brought back too many memories and he struggled with every word. And then there were those questions, questions Sherlock didn’t want to answer honestly, knowing that the truth would cause more pain.

 

When he left he was really glad that he was able to convince the family that he needed to visit Olga’s grave alone. He stood in front of the simple grey headstone for a long time. There was a small picture of Olga in a golden-coloured frame incorporated in the headstone. She smiled at him.  And this smile triggered more memories. They flooded his brain more vividly than before and with them came a cascade of emotions. He remembered the very small smile she had given him when they were both left alone, a smile that spoke of understanding and of gratitude. He had felt the same gratitude back then. Knowing that he was not alone was a comfort. He had felt ashamed back then, but now with the memories of that moment coming back he realized that she must have felt the same. They had not been alone and that had been a small solace in a sea of pain and humiliation. Soon those feelings were disregarded as more memories came back. There was the desperation, the knowledge that they would both be stuck in there, would have to face whatever the clients wanted to do to them. And finally there was the moment she died. Sherlock remembered that moment clearly and it threatened to overwhelm him. He felt how his knees became wobbly and he hastily left the cemetery. The pictures stayed in his head: her last moments, full of pain and despair.

 

Instead of walking back to the guesthouse he followed the path around the cemetery and walked to the fringe of the village. Fields of barley swayed in the early summer breeze. The sun gave them a distinctive greenish-yellow glow. Sherlock took a deep breath. He concentrated on his breathing for a few minutes and willed the memories away. He was alive. Victor was waiting for him in the guesthouse. He would hold him through the nightmares that would surely come this night. They would fly back tomorrow. The wedding date was in two weeks. They would celebrate with their friend and then they would live their lives. It seemed quite unfair, Sherlock thought. Olga had no chance to live. Her live ended in that torture chamber. Sherlock realized how lucky he had been not only to survive that day, but also to survive long enough to be found, to be found at all, the luck he had that somebody searched for him, not just somebody, but Victor. Sherrinford had not destroyed him. He had come very close, but his friends had saved him, not only Victor, but also John and Mary. Suddenly Sherlock realized that he not only needed this visit to Olga’s family and to her grave to find closure, but that there was one more step – he needed to see Sherrinford, to look him in the eyes and to show him that he didn’t succeed, that he didn’t break him. With that daunting thought Sherlock walked back into the village.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stood in front of the grey metal door and he hesitated. Behind that door was his brother. It would be the first time he would see him since the day his brother has visited him back in the torture chamber, the day Sherlock has begged him to be killed, had asked for mercy that Ford didn’t grant him.

“He is restrained.” Sherlock heard Mycroft speaking behind him. Obviously his brother had noticed that he had hesitated. Mycroft had tried to convince him not to come here, not to confront Ford.

“I don’t think he will attack me.” Sherlock said as he turned around to face Mycroft. “I just thought about the last time we met.” For a second he could see the guilt flashing through Mycroft’s features.

Without another word Sherlock turned to the door and without another moment of hesitation he stepped inside. Sherrinford was sitting with the back to the door and he didn’t make a move when he heard the door being opened.

“Oh, Mycie, another visit to show me that you are in charge? How boring.” Sherrinford snarled.

“Not quite.” Sherlock said, still standing by the door.

Sherrinford hastily turned around as much as his restraints would allow it and he looked at Sherlock, his eyes narrow, his gaze intense. He tried to keep his face a blank mask, but Sherlock could see the surprise in his eyes. Slowly Sherlock walked around the chair to the other side of the table. He sat down opposite and started to really take in his brother’s appearance. Mycroft had been extremely vague when Sherlock has asked questions about the conditions under which Ford was held. Now he got an idea. His brother was thinner than he used to be, not malnourished, but he had lost quite some of his well-trained muscles. No opportunity to work out. His skin was pale, unhealthy pale with quite a number of spots. No outdoor time, not much exposure to the sun and a surely not very healthy diet. Sherlock could also spot some faint bruises underneath the current restraints at his brother’s wrist. Being held restrained, not constantly, but surely quite regularly.

“Do you like what you see?” Sherrinford sneered interrupting Sherlock’s deductions.

Sherlock thought for a moment what kind of answer he could give to that question, but then he realized that he didn’t need to answer it. Sherrinford didn’t have the right to an answer. So he just continued to watch his brother. And what he saw surprised him. There was still the air of superiority that had always surrounded Ford. Born out of his intelligence and his ruthlessness he was always able to make other people and especially Sherlock feel inferior. But now this was only a show, a mask, something to hide behind. Underneath that mask Sherlock could clearly see that his brother was crumbling, that the isolation was stripping him of what he needed most: The proof that he was cleverer than everybody else, the proof that he could win every game. Sherlock smiled. He had come here to prove to Ford that he had not been able to destroy him, but seeing his brother who desperately tried to maintain a facade of strength and dominance and who failed in achieving that, that was enough already. Sherlock realised that didn’t need to say anything. He didn’t need to show Ford that he was okay. It didn’t matter what Ford thought. Sherlock didn’t need to prove anything to him. Slowly he got up.

“What?” Sherrinford yelled irritated. “This is it. You come here, sit down in front of me, you don’t speak a word and now you leave. Did I scare you?” Sherrinford laughed, but it sounded hollow and forced.

Sherlock chuckled quietly and smiled. “No, Ford.” He shook his head and made a few steps before he turned to his brother again. “I got from this visit everything I wanted. No, even more.” He walked up to the door.

“Do you still have nightmares?” Ford screamed. “Do you feel their hands on your body?”

Sherlock stopped for a moment. He turned his face to the mirror. Behind that mirror was Victor who had insisted to come along. Sherlock smiled.  “No, Ford.” Of course he still had nightmares, but it was not a topic he wanted to discuss with Ford and they didn’t really matter either. Victor was there when they came and whenever Victor was out of town and Sherlock felt the need he had stayed with John and Mary. “Do you?” He asked.

“Why should I have nightmares?” Sherrinford tried to laugh about it, but again he failed to conceal how tired and worn out he was.

Sherlock stepped closer. “You know that there was one thing that you were never able to do, don’t you?” He whispered.

“And what was that?” Sherrinford spat.

“To lie to me.” Sherlock said calmly. “You were the perfect liar when it came to Mom and Dad, to our teachers, and for a long time also to Mycroft, but you were never able to lie to me. Funny, isn’t it? I was always able to lie to you and you didn’t notice.”

Sherlock saw the anger in his brother’s face and was grateful that he was restrained. He once again let his eyes roam over his brother’s body. “I see it, you know. I can see what happens to you.”

There was a pause when both men just looked at each other until Sherlock decided that he was ready to leave.

“Does Victor fuck your used and damaged body out of pity?” Sherrinford snarled just when Sherlock had reached the door. And Sherlock couldn’t help it, he had to laugh. He turned around once more.

“I forgot that there is one more thing that you are not able to do.” Sherlock said still chuckling. “Admittedly, I am not so good at it myself, but compared to you I am a master.” Sherrinford looked at him furiously. “Emotions, my dear brother, you have no clue about human emotions.” Sherlock said smiling. “And you know what, while I am also not always able to understand them, I still have a lifetime to learn and friend who are willing to teach me, while you.” Sherlock didn’t finish the sentence he just turned around. His hand on the door handle he stopped once more. “You know you could have asked me to end your misery.”

“Sherlock.” Ford said quietly.

“You never called me that.” Sherlock said and without another word he left the room. 

 


	44. To the couple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry, it took me sooooo long to write again, but November and December my work schedule had been hell and so I just couldn’t find the time to write and when I had time I didn’t really had the inspiration to finish this. Nothing felt right. So it took quite some time to come up with this and even though it still feels like something is missing I still posted it as I couldn’t quite grasp what is missing.   
> So, here is the wedding, well, not the wedding itself. After some helpless tries to write that I decided to skip the ceremony and just go straight to the best man speech. I hope you like it. It is surly not as good as Sherlock’s speech at John’s wedding, but I tried my best to make this a bit fluffy and soppy.

 

“On my wedding day.” John started and turned to Sherlock with a mischievous smile. “On my wedding day you gave quite a memorable best man speech. I will try my best to follow your example, even though that will not be easy. It is not only such a memorable speech because you achieved it to insult the vicar, the bridesmaids and most guests within the first few sentences – something I will try to do my best not to do and if only because you two skipped the vicar and the bridesmaid tradition, well, it would have been strange if you didn’t, even though Mary and Molly were already looking forward for you choosing their bridesmaids dresses.”

Sherlock chuckled and remembered Mary’s fake pout when he told her that he and Victor had decided to skip all stupid traditions. He glanced a view in her direction, but she didn’t look back as she was entertaining little Miss Watson on her knees.

“Most people will probably remember you speech for the fact that you somehow managed to solve a murder – I hope there will not be a need for that today and if so, it will be your job not mine. But what made you speech truly memorable to me was something completely different. First of all it was the fact that you couldn’t fathom that I considered you my best friend. You were and you are and I sincerely hope you will always be my best friend, a part of my family and an indispensable part of my life. My life would not only be rather boring without you – no offence, Mary – but it would be incomplete. The times I thought that I had lost you where times full of sorrow and grief.”

Sherlock looked at his hands. This was kind of embarrassing. He should feel grateful for John to say those words, but he’d rather not be sitting in front of all his friends and his family while he did so. It was only when Victor nudged him gently that he looked up to John who gave him a warm smile.

“But before I get too soppy, I know you hate that, let me get back to the beginning of your speech back then at my wedding, right after you had insulted everyone. You went on and let us all know your thoughts about marriage by comparing it to murder. You ridiculed marriage in a lot of ways and made a pleading for the cold reason. And that wasn’t the first time you did that. How many times did I have to calm down clients or witnesses that you shocked with your very precise statements in regards of sentiment as something useless or by declaring love to be a chemical defect?”

Sherlock could hear the snorting laughs from the table where the Yarders where seated and he caught eyes with Greg for a moment who smiled at him and winked.

“But here you are and although you despised marriage back then and made fun of love at every possible opportunity I nevertheless have no doubts that you decision to get married is a genuine one and well thought through. And I have equally no doubt that you and Victor will have a happy married live. Why, you all might ask? Well, I always saw your little rants about sentiment for what they were, great acting.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip and fought the impulse to shake his head in disagreement.

“Because I knew back then as I know now that while you had and still have your problems with understanding the sentiment that rules us mere mortals you were not without sentiment yourself. The only difference is that while most of us have varied shades of love and devotion to the people we call our friends or loved ones, you are definitely an all-or-nothing person. You either love or loathe someone. And those who are in the rare position to be loved by you can consider themselves very, very lucky. I think I can say that I am one of them, no, I know definitely that I am one of them. And I know that once you love someone you are willing to do absolutely everything for that person, even giving up your life to protect them.”

Sherlock looked down again. He didn’t like where this speech was heading. He hoped John would stop his sentimental rambling soon.

“I am sure Victor knows that as well and that he considers himself lucky to not only be part of your life, but be loved by you – so much that you not only overcame your aversion of marriage but that you also were the one who proposed. God, I would have loved to witness that. And comment on it.” John chuckled before he continued his face turning more serious again. “What most people here might not know is that when it comes to love Victor and Sherlock are quite similar. If they love someone they are willing to risk everything, they love so fiercely that they are willing to sacrifice their own happiness, yes, even their own lives. You both have proven that each of one is you is willing to do everything for the other one. That kind of devotion is rare in a world where people part and give up if they come across some minor obstacles. That is why, when the registrar today came to the point of his little speech where he told you that you should stick together in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, I just couldn’t help but think that you already been through the bad times and that you already had proven each other that no matter how bad the times are that you will be there for each other.”

Sherlock felt Victor’s hand on his knee giving him a little squeeze and he turned to look at his husband (he still had to get used to call him that) and Victor smiled a very small and soft smile. Yes, they have been through rough times, Sherlock thought, enough for a lifetime.

“But I don’t want to talk about the bad times here. I just think that after everything that has happened that you both have earned a long spell of good times in the future. And I am sure that all of your friends and family, who are here today, will wholeheartedly agree with that. So please, raise your glasses for a toast.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but let out a relieved sigh as this would mean that John will finish his speech soon as he saw how his best friends stood up and all the guests followed.

“To a couple who did absolutely everything the wrong way. Most couples meet, fall in love, get married and the bad times come later. You two have been through bad times already, through misunderstandings and threats from the outside. You found each other again under the most horrible circumstances. You fought through it, through pain and sickness and you survived, not necessarily to have a future together, but to have a future at all. And then you had to fight to get back together, to establish a kind of everyday normal life, well as normal as your life will ever be. And here you are, together and married, with all those bad times checked of, ready to move forward to the good times ahead. Now, I ended the speech quite soppy and sentimental. I am sorry, Sherlock. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Barely and for once.” Sherlock said with a smile and took a careful sip from the champagne while everybody in room toasted to them.

 


	45. Husbands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry, it took me again so long to write, but work is still hell and then the Sherlock special needed so much attention ;-)  
> So, this is the last chapter and yes there is one more after this one, but read the note at the end before you proceed.

Sherlock slowly walked to one of the chairs that were placed around the improvised small dance floor that Angelo and his staff had created after the dinner. His foot hurt and he tried not to hobble to much as he didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention to him. With a sigh Sherlock sat down and started watching the people on the dance floor. Victor was dancing with Mrs. Hudson. They swept dramatically over the dance floor and it seemed that Mrs. Hudson had totally forgotten her bad hip. Or maybe she just had taken an extra dose of her soother after dinner. Beside them Molly was held close by Greg as they gently swayed over the dance floor, not quite in time with the more upbeat music, more in a world of their own. The sight created a smile on Sherlock’s lips. They fitted together perfectly. Not quite as perfect as those two couples were some of the other people on the dance floor. Sally and Dimmock didn’t really fit together as Sally tried to lead which obviously confused Dimmock. But those two looked strange anyway as Sally towered over the Inspector with her high heels. Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle at their rather fruitless attempts to dance with the music. Much better, if only by a margin was the attempt of Mycroft dancing with their mother. They were dancing in step with the music, but Mycroft looked like a ballroom dancer who wanted to win a competition, highly concentrated, a bit stiff with a frozen smile. In comparison the older Holmes gracefully swept Mary across the dance floor. Out of the two brothers it was Sherlock who inherited his father gracefulness, at least if it came to dancing. With a rueful sigh Sherlock looked down at his throbbing foot. It had been a long day and although they have been seated most of the time he did walk a lot and he had danced quite a lot – with Victor of course. And then his mother had demanded her dances and after that Mrs. Hudson, Mary and Molly wanted to dance with him too. Now he needed a break. Well, his foot needed a break and some ice, but Sherlock didn’t want to ask for it as it would certainly let his mother to start fussing about him. And then Mrs. Hudson, Victor and John would join in. No, thank you, he didn’t need that.

“Are you okay?” John’s voice asked. Sherlock looked up to see John standing beside him and smiling at him, but he could also see that he was worried.

“I am fine.” Sherlock replied with a small smile. “I just needed a break.”

“Sure. I just put the little one to sleep in Angelo’s office.” John said as he sat down beside him, carefully placing the baby monitor beside him. “I just saw that you limped a bit when you walked up here, so I just wanted to ask if you need something.”

“I am fine.” Sherlock repeated and earned himself John’s Don’t-lie-to-me-look. “No, really I am fine. My foot hurts a bit because of all the dancing, but it will be better with some rest.”

“Did you take something against the pain?” John asked sternly. He was obviously in full doctor mode already and Sherlock knew that he wouldn’t stop unless he could help in some way.

“I took something before the dinner.” Sherlock said with an exaggerated sigh.

“Okay.” John said and stood up. “I leave the baby monitor with you while I will get you some ice.”

Sherlock didn’t try to argue. He knew it would be of no use anyway. Doctor Watson was unstoppable when it came to caring for his health and while that had been the case ever since they first met it had become nearly annoying ever since ... Sherlock stopped his thoughts. He didn’t want to go there now. This was a wonderful day and he didn’t want to think about the past.

Lost in thought he didn’t notice that Victor has sat down beside him.

“Hey, husband.” Victor whispered in his ear.

Sherlock looked at him to find him smiling broadly at him.

“I will not be able to stop saying that for a while.” Victor said, leaning in to give Sherlock a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Is that so, husband?” Sherlock asked sternly but he couldn’t stop himself from giggling.

“Yeah. I think I will call you husband at every opportunity.” Victor said nodding to himself while watching the people on the dance floor. “For example, I just said to Hudders, that I sadly have to deny her the next dance as I desperately needed to look after my husband. “

“And did she buy your excuse?” Sherlock asked. He was glad that Victor while he obviously noticed that he was in pain didn’t find it necessary to state it or ask stupid questions.

“Yes, with some grumbling. Fortunately I was just able to hand her over to Mycroft.” Victor stopped for a moment and as he watched Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson on the dance floor.  He crunched his eyebrows and shook his head. “I am not quite sure if that was a good choice.” He resumed.

“Well, Hudders surly doesn’t mind.” Sherlock chuckled. “Mycroft on the other side looks a bit distraught.”

“Yeah.” Victor nodded amused.

The next moment John stood in front of them.

“I brought you some ice.” He said absent-minded, because as he saw that both men were intensely watching the dance floor he turned around and watched as well. “Strange, I always assumed that a man like Mycroft should be good at dancing. I mean isn’t that a kind of requirement in his social circles.” John said thoughtfully.

And suddenly all three men burst into laughter.

“Well, he had dance lessons at Harrow.” Sherlock wheezed out between his laughs. “But he hasn’t really learned something as it seems.”

Mary came over to them. “What is so funny?”

“Mycroft dancing.” The three men answered unison.

“Oh, yes, I already saw that.” Mary said with a small giggle. “I am glad I escaped so far.”

All four of them watched the display of non-existent elegance on the dance floor until it was ended by Anthea rescuing a very grateful looking Mycroft. With that distraction no longer there John switched into doctor mode again.

“Here, let me get the ice on your foot.” He said while he kneeled down and started to open the shoe laces of Sherlock’s shoe.

Sherlock wanted to protest, but he knew that he would have to give in at the end. So he patiently waited until John had placed the ice that was packed in a cloth around his foot which he placed on another chair. “Thank you.” Sherlock stated quietly as the coolness of the ice immediately dulled the throbbing.

“Sherlock, everything okay?” He heard his mother say. As predicted she immediately saw what John did and wanted to fuss.

“Mom, everything is fine. My foot needs some ice and some rest, but please don’t start to fuss.”  Sherlock pleaded.

“Dear, I just want to make sure you are okay.” Mrs. Holmes stated with a pout.

“He will be okay. I will take care of my husband.” Victor said while he placed both his arms around Sherlock, drew him closer and started to kiss him passionately.  Sherlock smiled into the kiss as he realized that this was Victor’s way to shoo his mother away and so Sherlock responded enthusiastically. It was their wedding day after all. They were entitled to some serious snogging. And it worked. Mrs. Holmes walked away, with a little encouragement from John and Mary. They still didn’t stop kissing for a while. When they finally broke apart they both started to giggle.

“Is that your new method of distraction?” Sherlock asked.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Victor answered with a shrug and a smile.

“Indeed.” Sherlock said. “I can think of quite a number of opportunities where this might be useful.”

“Oh, can you?” Victor said.

“Mmmhh.” Sherlock nodded. “But I think we need to work on it to make it perfect.”

“Well, who would have thought that I married a perfectionist?” Victor said with a snigger. “But of course I will gladly surrender to that challenge.”

“I thought so.” Sherlock said, his smile growing broader.

“Shall we start to work on it now?” Victor asked with a wink.

“We shouldn’t waste time. You never know when one might be in need of a perfect distraction.” Sherlock said and dived into the next kiss.

The kissing couple on the side didn’t notice the looks of fondness from their friends as the music on the dance floor changed to a slower piece.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my dear readers, this is the end. I hope you enjoyed my little AU story, not Johnlock, but after season three I needed a different kind of story as I was quite angry with John’s behaviour.   
> You might wonder why there is another chapter after this when this is the end. Well, it is a second epilogue, a different ending. But be warned: If you liked this happy ending, don’t read it.   
> Whether you stop here or read the second epilogue. Thanks for reading this story. Thanks for the kudos and the kind comments. And thanks to all who kept reading even if you had to wait quite a long time for those last chapters.


	46. Just a dream (Alternative Ending)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This is a second epilogue. It starts after chapter 44 or later in the evening after chapter 45. It is an alternative ending, different to the one in chapter 45. If you liked that happy ending: Stop reading here!
> 
> If you are interested in a different ending you might want to read further, but I warned you. This second epilogue is not a happy ending. It is not really bad either, but very ambiguous. The funny thing is, this second ending was written way before I wrote the other one. It just came to my mind when I was still somewhere in the middle of this whole story and it begged to be written down. For a long time I wasn’t sure if I would post it, but in the end I decided that since it was written it should be published.

Sherlock stepped aside and leaned against the wall. From that point he just looked at the people who were chatting or dancing. Everybody was radiating happiness and he couldn’t quite understand why he couldn’t just enjoy this moment. It was his wedding day. He had married the man he loved and all his friends and family were here. But something felt off and he couldn’t quite grasped what it was. It had been a wonderful day, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that something was about to happen. Dr. Rosewood appeared beside him and smiled.

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

For a moment Sherlock contemplated whether to reply that this wasn’t a therapy session right now, but he didn’t. Instead he tried to figure out what made him feel uneasy. He turned to look at all his friends and then it was suddenly all so clear.

 

“What if this is just a dream?” Sherlock whispered as if asking the question could abruptly end this dream. He turned to face Dr. Rosewood again. She just looked at him with a soft and caring expression and so he continued. “Sometimes I have the feeling that this is not the reality. That I am still in that cell, that I am still at their mercy. What if any moment I will be woken up by the door of my cell being opened and ...” He couldn’t finish the sentence as his throat was suddenly constricted with fear.

 

Dr. Rosewood still didn’t say a single word. She just looked at him and waited. Sherlock was confused. Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she assure him that this wasn’t a dream? Slowly he began to panic.

 

“Is there a way to tell whether this is a dream or not?” He asked desperately.

 

Dr. Rosewood shook her head. “I am sorry.” She said with a soft voice.

 

Sherlock felt how his breathing accelerated, how the panic crept through his body. He again looked at his friends and had the strange feeling that he wasn’t in this room at all. He started trembling when he felt her hand on his arm.

 

“There is no way to tell whether this is a dream or not.” She started. “But think about it. If this is a dream and you are aware of it, what would you do?”

 

Sherlock turned around to look her in the eyes. He gulped. “If this is a dream I don’t want it to end.”

 

Dr. Rosewood nodded. “And?”

 

“If it is dream it will end.” Sherlock whispered. He now was terrified. This was surreal. Why did he start to think about it?

 

Dr. Rosewood shook her head. “No, well, maybe yes. If it is a dream it will end. And if it is a dream then you might as well wake up back in the cell. Or somewhere else.” She paused for a moment. “But if it is a dream and you are aware of it you might as well enjoy as long as it last.” She smiled and walked away.

 

Sherlock was left with a strange feeling. He closed his eyes for a moment trying to feel his body, listening to his own breathing just like he always did during the meditation sessions. But then he opened his eyes again. If this was indeed a dream then the mediation sessions in the past months would have been part of the dream as well and then feeling his body was part of the dream as well. His thoughts circled around. She was right there was no way to tell whether this was a dream or not, not until he would wake up. He might as well enjoy it as long as it lasted. Sherlock closed the eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before he made his way through the room to the place where Victor and John stood and talked to each other vividly. He nearly toppled over as suddenly a sharp pain shot through in his foot. He just stopped a few steps away from them. Nobody seemed to notice his pain. He took another deep breath and just wanted to walk the last few steps as from somewhere far away he could hear the familiar creak of a door. He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is definitely the end. No more epilogues. Thanks for reading. Thanks for the kudos and the kind comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> English isn't my mother tongue, so if you see any mistakes, please tell me. Other feedback is of course also very much appreciated.


End file.
